I See Your Heart in the Darkness of Me
by demonkatgurl17
Summary: A chance encounter with Peter Hale leaves Stiles wanting more, but will he regret what he gets?
1. Chapter 1

Leaves crunched beneath Stiles's shoes as he walked aimlessly through the preserve. It was fast approaching sunset, the trees around him lit orange in the fading light.

This probably wasn't his _wisest_ choice, walking alone in an area known for violent deaths and (more often than not) riddled with murderers, but Stiles couldn't find it in him to really care.

Today held a special kind of agony for him. Well, for his dad too, but at least _he_ was at work, using the town's recent craziness to push through the painful memories this date brought; _Stiles _was alone.

Today was the anniversary Stiles's mom's death.

It was also a Saturday, which meant no school and, consequently, no real distraction from Stiles's own memories.

Early in the morning before his dad had gone in to work, he and Stiles had shared a strained breakfast together, which had culminated in a brief, angst-filled hug on his dad's way out the door. And then Stiles had been left to his own devices. After running through every available time-consuming task Stiles could think of (ranging from finishing his homework to video games to straightening up the house with OCD precision), he had been left with nothing but the urge to _move_.

He'd felt trapped in his own house, suffocating under the weight of his memories.

Her easy smile and warm, affectionate hugs…

Her little quirks and mannerisms…

The half-remembered ghost of her laughter echoing through the halls…

That's when the walls began inching closer and closer to him, and Stiles had given in to his panic. Grabbing his keys, he had pelted from the house and, once in the safety of his trusted Jeep, sped off without a destination in mind.

The relief from getting away from his own home had been almost tangible within the confines of the Jeep's cab. Shame had hit Stiles hard, knowing he'd run from his mother's memory, from the bits and pieces still scattered around the house, remnants of her once-upon-a-time presence.

It was cowardly, running from a ghost, but after encountering and fighting more legitimate terrors than 'spirits' lately, Stiles figured he'd earned the right to indulge in a little spinelessness.

Somehow, he had found his way to the preserve after driving around in a daze. He wondered if his subconscious had driven him here intentionally, directing him to a place with _different_ memories on which to dwell.

Nothing like drowning your depression with guilt and fear.

He had parked almost exactly where he had on the night Scott was bitten, after _Stiles_ had dragged him out in the middle of the night in search of blood and gore. It all seemed like a big joke because now Stiles was lucky if he and his friends could avoid _becoming_ gore on any given week. Strange how hindsight makes you appreciate your own stupidity.

If only it worked before hand…though he supposed that would be considered a premonition (which, after seeing werewolves, kanimas, and other freaky bump-in-the-night stuff, Stiles wasn't going to rule premonitions out as impossible just yet).

Walking through the trees was having a calming effect on Stiles, despite all the terrifying happenings in the preserve lately. Perhaps he was developing a thicker skin from dealing with the supernatural so often (part and parcel when your best friend was a supernatural being himself). Strolling through the reserve would have been more fun if said supernatural being was out here _with_ him, but…

Loneliness lanced through Stiles at the thought of Scott.

Only a few months ago, the two of them had been thick as thieves, but, after the bite, Stiles had watched his friend slip farther and farther away. It showed when Scott kept information from Stiles until _after_ things went to shit. Or when Stiles was left behind while Scott charged off to god knows where, hell-bent on fighting the baddies without him.

And it sucked.

No matter how weak and defenseless he might be as a human, Stiles _knew_ he could help, could help _twice_ as much as he already did if there was a _working_ chain of communication between all parties involved, instead of their current half-assed mail route for need-to-know crap. He might not be a werewolf, but some of his friends were, and it's hard to help protect them when you're working with an incomplete data set.

Stiles moodily kicked a stone out of his path, wondering if he should have asked Scott to come out here, then immediately ditched his train of thought.

Scott desperately needed to catch up on the mountain of homework that was currently threatening to set him back a year in his high school progress. Now that Allison was _actually _broken up with Scott and the kanima business was over, the slacking wolf might have a chance at making it to junior year.

Besides, Stiles was slightly bitter that his 'best friend' hadn't contacted him at _all_ today, _especially_ today, when in the past he had always at least _attempted_ to console Stiles on the anniversary of his mom's death.

It was kind of a slap in the face— and more painful than any of the punches Gerard had dealt him. The cut on his lip from that beating was mostly healed, but the bruises were still there, turning olive green and yellowish as they faded. Stiles counted himself lucky that Scott had even noticed the damage done to him in the explosion of crazy, murderous drama.

_Or that he had gone missing in the first place_, whispered a snide voice from a dark corner of his heart.

Speaking of crazy…

Stiles froze in his tracks when he noticed a figure sitting on the ground several meters away.

Even facing away from him, Stiles could tell it was a man, dark-haired and fair skinned, sitting cross-legged on a patch of exposed rock. All that Stiles could see were his jeans, black shirt, and the back of his head, but there weren't that many people that had the sac to wander these woods alone and only one person came to his mind: Peter Hale.

If ever there was a prime example of how much Scott had neglected to share with him, it would be the suddenly-not-dead-ex-Alpha-werewolf-who-was-appare ntly-on-our-side-now? Stiles had been shocked to see him come out of nowhere, alive and well, to take down the kanima with Derek, but Scott, on the other hand, hadn't seemed phased by the appearance of a psychotic werewolf they had all teamed up to kill. Which, hello? Kind of a big deal? But no, nothing, meaning Scott had known about him and had deliberately left Stiles in the dark.

It was lacrosse all over again, only _this_ first line was comprised entirely of werewolves and the puny human only got to play when enough of the pack was down for the count. Stiles was used to the treatment from his coach, but it pissed Stiles off that he was constantly benched by his own friend.

And the return of the guy who tried to kill your classmates? _Definitely_ something you told your best friend.

And now Stiles was alone.

In the woods.

Where no one could hear him.

Within a _stone's throw_ from the formerly-dead werewolf— who _had_ to have heard Stiles coming from a mile away, but was still just sitting there, giving no indication that he had even noticed Stiles's presence.

Confusion blended with fear as Stiles stood there, running through his options. His heart rate was jacked up through the roof and it didn't help one bit knowing that Peter could hear it, could scent his fear on the slight breeze rustling through the trees around them.

Several seconds passed as Stiles stared at the back of Peter's head, the dark hair hardly tousled by the wind. Neither said a word, as though waiting for the other to make a move.

_Peter was testing him_, Stiles realized. He was seeing if Stiles had the nerve to approach him of his own free will or it he'd turn tail. As his heart rate came back down, Stiles resisted the urge to flee to his Jeep as fast as he could, like the wolf probably expected. But Stiles ran with werewolves and was a damn good member of Scott's pack: he wasn't going to show his fear— even if he reeked of it.

Exceedingly proud of himself for not tripping over his feet, Stiles walked up to Peter and sat down beside him, casually reclining back onto his hands with his legs stretched out.

He was on the same rock as Peter with a foot of space between them. It was a comfortable distance without totally announcing that being this close to the wolf made him want to squirm, but he could practically _feel_ the boundary between them, a happy neutral ground that Stiles didn't want to look at too closely. Both stared straight ahead, all but ignoring each other.

The rock they were sitting on was a few feet away from a sizable drop-off that overlooked a large creek below. The water churned happily as it wound through the trees and twisted away deeper into the preserve, the peaceful rushing sound filling up the tense silence.

Stiles refused to be the first to break. He had made the first concession and got the ball rolling— now it was Peter's turn.

The werewolf inhaled deeply before releasing0 the breath slowly with an ambiguous hum.

Finally, he turned his head to look at Stiles. His eyes danced with repressed amusement as he studied the teen. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Stiles?" Peter purred softly. His brows were raised in curiosity, but there was a smugness dancing in his eyes from perceiving Stiles's nervousness.

Stiles turned to look at Peter, staring him down. "My mom died today, a few years ago," he said, hoping the blunt honesty would wipe off the smirk that was twitching at Peter's lips. Malicious glee twisted through Stiles as the amusement slid off Peter's face, but Stiles's triumph was short lived as that same humor morphed into something worse: understanding. He averted his gaze, choosing to watch the coursing water than to see his own pain echoed in those ice blue eyes. His teeth clenched together until his jaw ached, extremely aware that he had common ground with the murderer beside him and was unsure how to feel about it.

It was so much easier to hate the man, to focus on how many lives Peter's vengeance had irreparably altered, than it was to empathize with him and understand the agony that had driven him, that visibly still haunted him.

_Fuck_, Stiles thought. _Why can't things be simple for once? Black and white instead all of these fucking shades of grey?_

He rubbed a hand over his scalp rapidly in frustration, his fingers catching in the lengthening strands.

Peter was still watching him, silently assessing him, and it was setting his nerves on end. Nearly a minute passed before Stiles gave in and peeked over at Peter from the corner of his eyes. The werewolf was sitting perfectly still while scrutinizing Stiles's face, as though seeing him in a new light.

Stiles squirmed minutely on the rock, uncomfortable under the intense stare. So he stared right back, hoping to unsettling Peter in return— and ended up staring for other reasons.

This was the closest the two had been since the night of Peter's death (his _first_ one, at any rate) and the bi-curious side of Stiles was appreciating the changes in the man. The dark hair was flawlessly smoothed back same as it had been before in the parking garage, but the goatee was new and it brought an edgy 'bad boy' look to his otherwise casual appearance.

_It was downright sexy_ his hormonally charged brain observed.

And if _that_ wasn't jaw torqueing, having the hot's for the man who had wanted Scott to kill him not too long ago. The last thing Stiles needed was for Peter to smell his…appreciation.

Ducking his head back down, Stiles frantically pictured Coach in a leotard, prancing about on the lacrosse field, and was absolutely relieved when his dick stopped twitching with interest. He pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, defensive in his embarrassment, but masochistic curiosity soon had him glancing back up at Peter.

The older man was contemplative as his sharp blue eyes quickly flicked over the teen.

Stiles's eyes narrowed, instantly wary. A calculating werewolf was a dangerous werewolf and Stiles was a long way from anyone who might hear him scream. But all Peter did was peer at him thoughtfully and unfold himself. He stretched his legs out before him and reclined his back onto his arms, mirroring how Stiles had first sat. The relaxed posture did much to sooth Stiles's nervousness and he wondered if Peter had done it on purpose.

"Far be it from me to deny a grieving man his space," Peter murmured, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, for all the world appearing to be enjoying the serenity of his surroundings.

Stiles stared at the older man in bemusement before he, too, closed his eyes, concentrating on the flow of the water below, letting it carry his thoughts away…

A tentative silence fell between them. It was kind of amazing, really, how easy it was to just sit here with Peter. He was free from distractions, free from having to smile and pretend to be happy and okay for people who didn't understand. Scott was great, but (no offense to him or anything) he didn't really understand what it was like to lose someone so close to him. Regardless of Scott's parents' divorce, the dude still technically had both parents, no matter how much of an asshole his dad might be.

Stiles supposed that was part of why it was so different, being here with Peter instead. The older man wasn't trying to draw Stiles onto conversation. He had accepted Stiles's explanation without question and then stoically kept him company.

Scott would have gone on and on about whatever he could think of, would have had endless suggestions on how to pass the time, but the obvious discomfort in his friend's eyes and his palpable relief when leaving at the end of the night killed Stiles a little every time. But there was none of that here with Peter because Peter _understood_ Stiles's pain, understood what it was like to have your world torn apart. To have to _deal with it_ and rebuild it as best you could.

Guilt bit at Stiles as he mentally reexamined Peter's time as Alpha, the man's search for revenge, and his attempt at creating his own pack.

How much of it had been his grief, driving him to seek retribution by any means necessary? How much from being whipped into a crazed fury by the power of becoming an Alpha?

_What would Stiles have done had it been _him_?_

The woods were gradually darkening with the setting sun, and Stiles marveled at how long he had been out here. Surprise jolted through him as he realized how clear his thoughts were, far past due as he was for his next dose of Adderall.

Was it being out here without all the pressure and expectations? Or could it be….Peter?

Stiles started at a soft touch to his bruised cheek. His eyes flew to Peter's, seeing the man's grim concern before focusing on a stain on his jeans. "Sorry, Sometimes I forget it's still there," he said to his knees, unsure as to why he felt slightly ashamed.

"Don't apologize for being human," Peter chastised softly. "The pack can be quick to forget that you don't bounce back as fast as they do, but... When I was burned… you could say I gained an appreciation for the healing power of my kind. It's…easy to take it for granted."

_Like it was so easy to take me for granted_, Stiles thought, tiredly.

Peter was still touching his face tenderly, careful not to press too firmly on the damaged skin. He met Stiles's gaze, smiling faintly as he brushed his blunt thumbnail along the edge of the teen's jawline.

Stiles inhaled sharply at the sensation, surprised and a little aroused by the gesture. There was a vulnerability in Peter's eyes that made Stiles lean into the touch. He was increasingly aware of how intimate the situation was getting, but he couldn't find it within him to care. It was rare these days for someone to pay attention to him, and rarer still to be looked at like he _mattered_, like he was _worth_ something, even if he was only human.

Running with werewolves had made him all too aware of how weak he was in comparison and, more often than not, he seemed to just get in the way. But Peter wasn't looking at him as though he were a nuisance. It was almost as though…

Stiles licked his lips. His nerves were making his heart rate rise and he knew Peter could hear it plain as day.

Peter's eyes followed the quick sweep of tongue.

_Was that a flicker of wolf-blue in his eyes or merely Stiles's imagination? _

Certainly no one had ever looked at his lips like _that._ It was flattering, especially from someone as attractive as Peter (and as intelligent, though Stiles was sure the man wasn't appreciated for that trait). _Stiles_ appreciated it. After all, the man _did_ manage to track down and eliminate the people responsible for slaughtering his family after being in a coma for _six fucking years_. Hell, even the police hadn't been able to convict anyone for the crime until after Peter connected the dots for them.

Stiles could see the value Peter's experience and intelligence could bring to Derek's pack, experience the pack _needed_. They were newly bitten, half of them scattered to the winds from the Argent threat and lack of proper leadership. Yet, reformed from his psychopathic ways and willing to help as Peter seemed, the man was clearly kept to the fringes of Derek's pack, like Stiles was in Scott's pack. As lonely as Stiles often was, it must be worse for Peter. He had been part of a pack and it had been ripped away from him. Stiles wasn't even sure if Derek _had_ accepted Peter into his pack, but, if he had, Peter seemed to be pushed to the side in it. Stiles ached empathetically because you could _see_ his loss fractured within the werewolf's ice-blue eyes, if you looked close enough.

And Stiles wanted to change that, to take that pain away. When his mom died, Stiles had stepped up to take care of his dad—it had been instinctual— and that same impulse to try to fix things was thrumming through him now. He wanted to comfort Peter. He wanted to show him that something beyond grief still existed, but he had nothing to offer him, he only had himself.

He only had _himself_.

Bolder than he normally was (and probably twice as crazy), Stiles slowly rolled to his knees and positioned himself in Peter's lap.

The werewolf made no move to stop him, watching with bemused interest as the teen straddled his hips. His hand, the one he had been stroking Stiles's cheek with, now cupped the back of Stiles's neck, thumb lightly stroking across the soft skin of his throat.

Hesitantly, Stiles leaned forward, awkwardly placing his hands on Peter's firm abdomen. He had never done this before, had never touched another person like this, so he let his instincts guide him.

He leaned forward and nuzzled at Peter's throat, breathing in his masculine scent.

The older man tipping his head back. He briefly squeezed Stiles's nape, giving the teen permission to continue. Stiles reverently pressed his lips to the warm skin before experimentally running his tongue across the spot.

_His first taste of werewolf_.

Peter tasted of salt, skin, and something…exotic, wild, and Stiles wondered if all werewolves tasted like this or if only Peter was this _addicting_. Stiles whimpered faintly as he licked and sucked along the length of the man's neck, drawing bruises that faded soon after their creation.

His taste…his smell… It was driving him crazy, inciting a dull buzzing in the back of his head as he feverishly put his mouth on Peter wherever he could reach. Maybe werewolf pheromones were more potent than a human's because Stiles had never felt a need like this: he wanted to taste every inch of Peter's skin, to _devour_ him.

Peter groaned deep in his throat under Stiles's ministrations, rubbing his thumb in circles over the teen's bobbing Adam's apple. His other hand was wrapped around Stiles's hip, controlling the helpless twitches they were making. When Stiles nipped his earlobe, the werewolf gave a throaty growl and yanked Stiles back by his neck.

Peter's electric blue eyes sent a thrill through Stiles as he pulled the teen into a heated kiss, short-circuiting his brain. It was rough and wet and everything Stiles had hoped his first kiss would be. The older man speared his tongue into Stiles's mouth, fucking into it with deep, confident strokes that made Stiles's toes curl and his hips to rock in want.

Stiles whimpered under the onslaught of sensation as he breathed heavily through his nose. He was stupidly happy for catching onto that particular trick so fast because he was pretty sure he'd have suffocated by now without it. Stiles hardened, his body going pliant under Peter's dominating kiss.

Peter dragged Stiles forward against him by his hips. They groaned as their trapped erections pressed dragged against each other and, abruptly, Peter pulled away.

Stiles whined at the loss, but quieted when, in a show of werewolf strength, Peter wrapped an arm around his waist, lifting and rolling with him. Almost tenderly, he laid Stiles on his back and propped himself above him, settling between the teen's lewdly spread legs.

Knowing that Peter was stronger than him but was purposely reigning in his power— determinedly being _gentle_ with him— snapped something inside of Stiles. He didn't _want _gentle right now. He wanted to be reckless and helpless (without fearing for his life, for once). Everyone treated him like he was made of glass; he didn't need that from Peter as well.

Before Peter could do more than rumble warningly in his chest, Stiles threw his arm over Peter's neck and pulled his head down to slot their mouths together in a biting kiss. Stiles tugged on a belt loop to bring the older man flush against him. He bucked his hips up against Peter, moaning and writhing like a whore.

It was like a switch flipped in Stiles's head as soon as their bodies had touched. Pure need overtook him, making him a desperate, wanton thing, begging for Peter's touch.

His forwardness seemed to set Peter off, their kiss turning messy with hints of teeth. Peter hooked one of Stiles's legs over his waist, gripped his ass, and _ground_ against Stiles, hard and rough. Stiles's cry stuttered out of him at the manhandling, the friction just shy of being painful but only making it better. The hand on Stiles's ass, fucking _kneading_ it, was driving him crazy. He was torn between rutting against Peter and arching back into that hand.

Peter nipped at his bottom lip with blunt human teeth, startling a gasp from Stiles. There was a slight shift of hips and, _fuck_, that was _Peter_ against him, hot as a brand and hard as steel, hard for _Stiles_.

_Fuck_, Stiles thought brokenly, canting his hips up and rubbing against the older man shamelessly.

Rutting, definitely rutting, it was never _not_ going to be rutting.

Frantically, he dug a heel into the rock bed and, using it and the leg thrown over Peter's waist, tried to match Peter's rhythm, clumsy in his lust.

The werewolf didn't seem to mind his enthusiasm, if the glowing eyes and claws— extended, threatening to pierce his jeans— were any indication. Peter brought the forearm supporting his weight closer to Stiles, allowing him to slide his hand under Stiles's neck and grasp his nape: a not-so-subtle reminder of Peter's dominance.

Feeling sharp claws trace over the fragile skin of his neck, just _barely_ digging in, had Stiles throwing his head back against the rock, overwhelmed and moaning raggedly.

Still rolling his hard cock over Stiles's, Peter nuzzled the bared throat, purring happily as he licked and sucked livid marks to life.

Stiles buried a hand in Peter's hair and gripped the silken strands, unable to stop his whimpers and groans now that Peter's lips weren't muffling them. As much as he liked Peter's mouth on his, Stiles couldn't help but love having it at his throat, taking him apart.

There was a fire in his veins, burning fierce low in his abdomen. His groin was pulled tight, anticipating orgasm.

Stiles clawed Peter's back. The feel of his fingernails snagging in the material helped ground Stiles as wave after wave of bliss pulsed through him from Peter's touch. The strong muscles in Peter's back strained back and forth as the werewolf thrust with abandon, panting his groans into Stiles's neck.

Stiles felt his heart skip when Peter closed his mouth around the flesh of the crook of his neck, sucking hard and, oh, oh my _God_, those weren't just _teeth_ those were _fangs_—

The sharp points dragged over his skin with enough pressure to make them known, but not hard enough for them to break skin. Not with Peter restraining himself, holding back from hurting Stiles even when wolfed out and lost in passion. Vibrations ran along his neck where Peter's lips touched it and it was a moment before Stiles realized what it was: growling— not the rumblings of human vocal cords, but the coarse, territorial sounds of an _animal_.

It finally sank in that Stiles had a very dangerous, very _aroused_ werewolf on top of him, a thread away from being out of control for want of him.

With that thought, Stiles convulsed as pleasure shot through him, his muscles pulling tight as he clutched desperately at Peter's shirt, eyes rolling back in his head with the force of his orgasm. His hips bucked uncontrollably as he came and came _hard_, still fully clothed. Utterly spent, Stiles lay prone on the rock.

He reeled, nerves tingling, until the warmth above him suddenly vanished, prompting him to loll his head around in search of Peter.

He didn't have far to look. Peter had reared back on his knees to tug at the opening of his pants and oh _fuck_…

It was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. There was no other adjective that truly described Peter Hale's hard cock. It was long and thick with veins elegantly spider-webbed underneath the skin, jutting proudly from his pants. Peter jerked himself violently with inhuman speed, his hand blurring over the reddened shaft. Never taking his glowing eyes off of Stiles, he panted and growled as he fucked his hand, snapping his hips up into what had to be a tortuous grip.

Exhausted as he was, Stiles could still appreciate the fact that, had he not just ejaculated his freaking _brains_ out, he would be rock hard from the vision before him.

He startled when Peter lunged forward to yank Stiles's shirts up, exposing his torso. Peter snarled, his elongated canines flashing menacingly as he hovered above Stiles, hand still flying over his cock as he held himself up effortlessly with one arm. When Peter came, he wasn't particularly loud, but the man's climax was nevertheless intense.

Perhaps because he didn't break eye contact with Stiles as he shot thick, opaque strands all over Stiles's bare chest, some of the drops managing to land on Stiles's neck and face. The heady scent of Peter's come filled the air and sank into Stiles's skin, permeating it.

It felt like a claim, _Peter's_ claim.

And Stiles was surprisingly…okay with that, with Peter marking him as _his_.

Dazed, he watched as Peter slowly stroked his cock in lazy pulls, a last spurt of come dribbling down the shaft and coating his fingers. Fixated on the milky fluid, Stiles licked his lips, wondering how it _tasted_.

Realizing he had been trailing his fingertips through the slickness on his chest, Stiles brought a hand up to lap experimentally at the sticky come. He knew what his own semen tasted like, so he wasn't squeamish or anything (after all, when a good portion of your spare time is spent _producing_ the stuff, a guy gets a little curious). The underlying sharp tang was the same, but there was a hint of something else, something unique and wholly _Peter_ that had Stiles licking his digits clean of every stray speck.

"Mmm…."

Stiles looked up at Peter's low hum to see his eyes (which had returned to his normal clear blue after shooting his load) flash wolf-blue momentarily, seemingly riveted by the sight of Stiles's tongue licking away the come.

Smiling predatorily, Peter stretched out on all fours above Stiles, his face hovering less than an inch from Stiles's.

His breathing shallow from the werewolf's proximity as much as from his pleased expression, Stiles waited for the other shoe to drop before understanding struck.

Tilting his head to the side, he raised his head and closed the distance between them. He pressed his lips to Peter's in a gentle, unhurried kiss, allowing entrance to Peter's begging tongue when it flicked against his lip. After a few moments of mutual exploration, Peter pulled away, regretfully, to take in the dusk that had fallen with the sun.

Naturally, Stiles would trek through the preserve a few nights before the full moon, but this area of the Preserve was thick with trees and their leaves blotted out much of the moonlight. Peter might be able to see in the dark, but Stiles would be lucky to find his way back to his Jeep without tripping over something and snapping his own neck. Which was going to be _such_ a fun walk _anyway_, with the cooling come in his shorts.

He wrinkled his nose disdainfully, feeling the mess move as he sat up. Stiles squinted up at Peter, hardly able to make out the surrounding trees much less the hazy form of the man a foot away from him.

Now that lust wasn't clouding his judgment, the reality of the situation was beginning to set in, heavy and confusing in the pit of his stomach.

_I just had sex with a werewolf. I just had sex with _Peter Hale.

Of the two thoughts, Stiles wasn't sure which was the more terrifying. Previously, when Stiles had given serious consideration as to who might be the first to touch him (his hopes and dreams of Lydia finally seeing the awesomeness of Stiles, aside), Peter Hale had never been on the list. Or anywhere _near_ the list, for that matter. I mean, sure he'd given the werewolves of Beacon Hills a passing thought (or more) because he was hormonal even in his _sleep_, and yeah, the idea of doing a freakin' _werewolf_ was really fucking hot. Kind of like the werewolves of Beacon Hills—really fucking hot.

Except for Scott.

No offense to the dude's arguably cute puppyish-ness, but no, just _no_, he was _not_ going to think about his best friend like that, his best friend who could _smell_ certain things like 'wayward arousal'.

To be honest, _Derek_ had always felt like the most likely one of the group he'd have jumped, and Peter, well…

Up until recently, Peter had been _dead_.

But now he wasn't.

And Stiles had just gotten off with him in the middle of the freaking forest.

_God, if just _frotting_ with Peter had felt amazing, then penetrative sex would probably _kill_ him_, supplied the perpetually horny and supremely unhelpful part of his mind. Hell, Stiles didn't even know what this _was_ and his hormonally-charged brain was already thinking about more, again, _soon._

Forget being a werewolf, just being _human_ was fucking hard enough.

Stiles cleared his throat, awkward and uncertain of how to proceed. "Well, um—"

"Where are you parked?" Peter interrupted, tucking himself into his pants and straightening his clothes.

Glancing down, Stiles saw that his own shirt was still rucked up on his chest. He pulled it back down, grimacing as the material smeared through the drying mess and pulled at his hair. "Uh, couple miles away? I think?" He waved in the general direction he'd come from as a different brand of worry filled him.

_How the hell would he find his bearings in the dark? _

Peter took Stiles by the arm and pulled him back onto his feet. Keeping his hand on the crook of Stiles's arm, Peter tugged him in direction indicated, his grip lax but alert. Puzzled, Stiles cocked his head to the side. "What are you doing?"

Peter sighed— or was it the dead leaves being kicked around by their feet?

"I'm helping you back to your Jeep. It's not like you brought a flashlight, right?"

Stiles frowned at the shadow walking beside him. "I've still got my phone, dude."

"Mhmm… And when did you last charge it?" The cynicism was heavy in Peter's voice.

"I charged it, like…" Stiles racked his brain for a time, coming up with nothing, how could he not know this? He charged it, like, every night—

Except last night. He'd been preoccupied, thoughts of his mom driving away his sleep as well as his normal pre-bed routine, which included plugging in his phone. A brief check of his remaining battery life proved both he and Peter right: there was power left, but keeping the App on all the way through the woods would likely suck it away before he'd find his Jeep.

Fuck.

Peter hummed noncommittally when Stiles failed to contradict him.

Silence fell between them, this time laced with an unfamiliar tension. Stiles was no stranger to awkward silences, but…he'd never done this before. He didn't know what the protocol was after you got off with another person. Should he compliment Peter on the _fantastic_ way he'd drawn Stiles's brains out through his dick? Should he make small talk? Try to hold Peter's hand?

He about choked on his tongue at the thought of skipping happy-go-lucky through the woods, hand in hand with Peter, maybe with Stiles wearing a red hood and carrying a basket while Peter sported a tail.

Oh god, he was never mentioning that to Peter, _ever_, on pain of death. So far, the werewolf liked him and he wasn't going to mess that up with some half-assed comedic relief.

At least, it _seemed_ like Peter liked him (Stiles doubted he rubbed one out on just _anyone_), but he had to admit, it was hard to tell since Peter hadn't said anything in several minutes. Like, at _all_. He just walked beside him, leading him along with the hand on Stiles's arm.

Doubt and self-consciousness seeped in, preying on the insecurities in Stiles's heart.

Was it…bad?

No, that couldn't be it, Peter had totally wolf-claimed him, marked his territory with his freaking _scent_ (frankly, Stiles was grateful the guy hadn't _peed_ on him). He wouldn't just _come_ and then _go_, would he? The ridiculousness of that idea smacked him in the face because, yeah, some guys were douchebags and did that kind of thing. Maybe Peter was one of those guys?

Stiles pushed the thought away. He didn't want to _consider_ that.

He wanted Peter to be different.

He _was_ different. I mean, hello? _Werewolf_. Can't get much more different than that, but…werewolves were also _people_. And people tended to suck every now and then and, to be honest, Stiles knew next to nothing about the _person_ beside him. For all Stiles knew, he might just be an easy lay for Peter, another notch in a bed post probably littered with marks and, _no_, he was not fucking tearing up like some little girl whose crush didn't like her _back_.

Stiles shook his head viciously from side to side, trying to rid himself of the sting of his own imagination, when his foot slipped on a loose rock. Pain stabbed through his ankle.

_"Shit!"_ Stiles spat out, his knees buckling.

He never made it to the ground though. As soon as Stiles lost had his footing, Peter was there in a whirl of speed, catching the teen against his chest and effectively breaking his fall. Stiles's arms found themselves hooked around Peter's neck for support (not that he _needed_ it, per se, as tightly as Peter was holding him).

He huffed quietly into the hollow of Peter's throat, aggravated by his own clumsiness.

"Are you alright?" Peter was tilting his head awkwardly to look at him, concern in his voice as his thumb stroked the small of Stiles's back.

"Um…"

Stiles bit his lip, using the discomfort to drive away the fresh stirrings of accidental arousal that being this close to the older man, under his touch, spawned.

Stiles got his feet underneath himself and pressed down experimentally on the injured ankle, his nerves flaring under the pressure. He shifted his weight to the other leg, embarrassed by the inconvenience.

Yep, Stiles Stilinski can _totally_ take care of himself. Walking along in the woods? No _problem_. Yeah, right. Couldn't get halfway through the preserve without twisting his goddamn ankle. This really wasn't helping to make his case as a potential suitor. His ankle was making him pull a 'damsel in distress' thing, and 'damsel' didn't look good on Stiles.

Not that he was thinking about going steady with Peter.

Okay, not a _lot_, but still, options are options, and any option that could show Stiles a 'good time' like _that_ was worth considering. Not that he was easy or anything.

Stiles winced as he gingerly rotated the sore joint, the movement hampered by jabs of pain.

"Well, I uh, I think I sprained my ankle. Doesn't feel broken, but it's gonna make walking a bitch. I'll be fine if we just take it slower," he said, covering his irritation with as much bravado as he could muster.

"Hmm…"

Peter unwound Stiles's arms from around his neck and dropped to a knee, helping Stiles maintain his one-legged balance with an inhumanly strong hand on his side.

"That's, that's just, uh, what are you…" Stiles stammered, unfamiliar with having a man on his knees in front of him at crotch level— but he sure was familiar with the desire that surged through him at the sight (hey, thousands of porn sites dedicated to fellatio couldn't _all_ have it wrong).

His reawakening lust was cut short as Peter pulled up his pant leg to expose the injured ankle and wrapped his hand firmly around it.

Stiles frowned down, perplexed. There should be _more_ pain from the pressure, but instead there seemed to be _less_, like it was being sucked away. What the fuck? "Werewolves have healing powers? I thought only worked, like on yourselves?"

Straightening back up, Peter chuckled softly at him. "No, we can't really heal others. But we can take some of their pain away. Temporarily, at least. Try it now."

Hesitantly, Stiles distributed his weight a little more evenly and was pleased to find the pain had receded to a dull ache. Not completely gone, but enough that he could walk. He beamed at Peter and, without fully thinking about it, stepped further into the man's space to wrap him up in a hug.

"Thank you, man, you have no idea how much of my pride you just saved. Seriously."

And then it dawned on him: he was _hugging_ Peter.

Why did it feel so much more intimate than rubbing against the werewolf?

Before he could step back, Peter reciprocated the hug, stroking lightly down Stiles's spine with a thumbnail. "You're very welcome, Stiles," Peter purred in Stiles's ear, enticing a shiver from the teen.

A whimper escaped Stiles's lips. Teeth nipped at his earlobe and he rocked closer, his hands fisting convulsively in Peter's shirt. Stiles moaned when the hand stroking his spine drifted lower to cup his ass.

Peter buried his face in the crook of Stiles's neck, breathing in his scent in deep, ragged pulls. He gave a lingering kiss to Stiles's bruised throat, then stepped back, letting the night air rush in to cool the heat flaring between them.

Stiles felt his face flush as he swayed on his feet, already missing having Peter pressed against him.

Peter cleared his throat. "We should keep moving. The sooner we reach your Jeep, the sooner your ankle gets wrapped. That little trick of mine isn't permanent. I'd prefer we find the vehicle before the pain comes back." He resumed his hold on Stiles's bicep as they started off again, but not before Stiles had seen the man palm his own crotch.

_He'd had to adjust himself._

Stiles's pride crowed, ridiculously pleased that he wasn't the only one affected. That he, _Stiles_, could make the sexy Peter Hale hard.

The remaining half hour walk went by fast, but more comfortably than before, knowing that their initial moment of passion hadn't been a fluke. There was something between them, something primitive and malleable, and Stiles _itched_ to know what it could be, how far this could go.

He had to be careful though. Peter was the wild card here. Alpha or not, he was still dangerous for a human to play with— but Stiles thought that might be half the fun.

They emerged from a thick line of trees and found themselves on one of the wide paths built for vehicles that ran through the preserve. And there, about twenty meters down the haphazard road, sat Stiles's Jeep.

"Whoo!" Stiles exclaimed, throwing his arms up wildly in his ecstatic relief.

Ignoring his twinging ankle, he sprinted to the vehicle and draped himself across the hood in an exuberant hug. He was still crooning nonsense and caressing the thinning paintjob when Peter sauntered over, amusement all over his smug face.

"I take it she survived your absence?" Peter asked wryly as his eyes roved over Stiles's bent-over form.

Peter's wandering eyes didn't go unnoticed and the recently discovered slutty part of Stiles immediately responded to the attention. His eyes lock on Peter's, he shuffled his feet further apart and subtly tilted his hips back in invitation.

Peter's eyes flashed warningly as he stalked over and plastered himself to Stiles's back. "We really should get that ankle wrapped, Stiles." His voice was low and husky in Stiles's ear, like he was on the verge of wolfing out and it made Stiles shudder with want.

"Ye— Yes, that's — We should really do that," Stiles choked out, stuttering when Peter's hands encircled his hips and pinned him to the Jeep. He panted harshly as he ground back onto Peter's crotch, trying to goad him into action.

Abruptly, Peter dragged Stiles off the hood and steered him towards the driver's side door.

Arms flailing about, Stiles stumbled into the door and turned to the older man in confusion. Had he gone too far?

"What—"

"If you keep that up, I'll take you on your Jeep. _Dry,_" Peter whispered as he slowly retreated, his eyes shining bright blue in the dark.

Oh.

Stiles's guts did an odd backflip. He'd known he was pushing Peter's buttons, but he hadn't really considered the man's _limits_.

Well…

Stiles hadn't been thinking about _anything_ beyond feeling Peter's cock again. Still, he wasn't about to have his first time sans lubricant. Lust-addled, Stiles was. C_razy_, he was not.

Wait what? His first time?

Holy _fuck_, he wanted it to be _Peter_. This was pushing the bounds of recklessness even for Stiles, but Peter _wanted_ him, had just admitted it in an offhand sort of way that he wanted to _fuck_ him. And Stiles was willing. Was so freaking _ready_, he was practically _dripping_ pheromones.

Biting his lip nervously, Stiles leaned against the door seductively (he hoped)."So…you're not coming?"

Peter froze in place, a few feet from the tree line behind him.

"I mean, come on," Stiles cajoled, "you single-handedly gave me the best orgasm of my life, so far. The least I can do is feed you." He absently wondered how close to prostitution this came.

Peter cocked his head slightly. "Is that wise?"

Stiles snorted. "Is any of this? Come on, the house will be empty for hours. You can,I don't know, relax for a while. Unless you're eager to go chill with His Broodiness?" Stiles waited with baited breath as the werewolf turned over the offer. A grin broke onto his face when Peter walked over to the passenger side of his Jeep.

"I drive that hard a bargain?" Stiles quipped, getting behind the wheel.

Smirking, Peter settled into the passenger seat. "You say that as though there was a contest."


	2. Chapter 2

The front door unlocked with a solid 'click' as Stiles's key turned over the tumblers. He held the door open for Peter and then followed him in, locking the door securely behind him— which was interesting, when he thought about it, because the big, bad monster was on the wrong side of the door.

What did that say about Stiles?

Peter eyed the smile Stiles was failing to repress. "What's so funny?"

Stiles ducked his head, chagrinned. "Ah, nothing, it's just nice to see a werewolf other than Scott that knows how to use the front door. I was starting to think it was a 'born' thing, coming in through the window," he said as he meandered to the kitchen, Peter trailing in his wake.

"And does Derek drop by often?"

The question seemed offhand, but there was something…off about the tone of Peter's voice. It was too light, too even, and it made Stiles turn away from the open pantry to look at Peter. The man was leaning back against the sink, his hands half buried in his jeans pockets and his ankles crossed. Despite how relaxed and politely interested Peter appeared, the man was putting him on edge, as though Stiles could _tell_ when Peter's nonchalance was faked.

It was something about his eyes, cunning and sharp and piercing through to the soul with a single glance— and they were watching Stiles intently.

He wasn't…no, that's not… Was Peter _jealous?_ Wow, when a werewolf marks his territory, he fucking _means_ it…

"No no no, _no_, Not often. Or really at all, much. Not _socially_. He mostly shows up on pack-type business. Or when he's on the lam. He doesn't pop in for movie night or, you know, to hang out. _Ever_," said Stiles, practically tripping over himself to reassure Peter that his nephew wasn't a threat (_romantically_ speaking, that is). Speaking of tripping…

Stiles nearly fell over when his ankle throbbed unpleasantly, making itself known as it suddenly refused to support his weight. And that's when Peter's arms wrapped around him from behind (when had the dude even _moved?_) and stabilized his balance.

"Where are you medical supplies?" Peter asked, concern slipping into his voice.

"What?" Peter's hand, low on his abdomen, was completely derailing Stiles's thought pattern. "Oh, um, upstairs bathroom, why?"

Peter's sigh tickled his ear. "For your ankle?" He drawled sarcastically.

Oh.

Between his excitement from getting Peter to come home with him and worrying about what the hell to _cook_ for the guy, Stiles had all but forgotten his little stumble in the woods— as well as his "mess" from earlier. The uncomfortable little tugs from where his pubic hair was sticking to his boxers were suddenly magnified now that he was focusing on the area. Crap, the night just couldn't go smoothly for him, could it?

"Okay, how 'bout a compromise?" Stiles stammered, hoping that the werewolf would let him have his way in his _own freaking house_. "You help keep me from face-planting on the floor while I get dinner together and then we'll break for bandaging." He grimaced as the dried come started to make him itch. "And maybe a shower. I promise, once the food is in the oven, I'm all yours. Cool?"

Peter hummed softly and nuzzled Stiles's ear. "All mine, hmm?"

Stiles's stomach flipped, nervously. Had he really said that?

"Deal," Peter whispered, guiding Stiles back to the open pantry. "And what will we need from in here?"

Okay…so, _not_ the smoothest of dinner preps in Stilinski history, but on a scale of one to ten, Stiles still felt it merited at least an '8', from Peter's help alone.

Having the sexy werewolf proverbially glued to his hip had given Stiles on-the-spot jitters— as well as butterfingers that would have shattered his mom's best baking dish had Peter not caught it before it hit the floor (_thank God_ for supernatural reflexes).

And, of course, Stiles had to go and slice his finger on the edge of a low-sodium green bean can, but Peter's insistence that a few drops of blood would only "enhance" the dish's flavor had been (weirdly) reassuring enough to keep Stiles from scraping the whole project and just ordering take-out.

Or maybe it had been Peter's bedroom eyes as he sucked on the wounded finger.

Or the impromptu hard-on that made Peter smirk knowingly at him for about ten minutes as they threw ingredients together.

Yeah, probably that last one. Stiles hadn't been about to greet the pizza guy with a tip and a boner (he still had _some_ standards).

Besides, making dinner with Peter? — Surprisingly not that awkward. Once Stiles got used to the perpetual hand at his waist, they had somehow…sync'd. The whole process became fluid, Peter's keen eyes and quick reflexes allowing him to keep pace with whatever needed opening, slicing, handing over, and whatnot.

The familiarity of Peter's movements made Stiles suspect that the man had experience in the kitchen, but he didn't dare ask about it. They seemed to have an unspoken agreement of _not_ bringing up their demons. Which was just fine, in Stiles's opinion; the little assholes were free to lurk in the corner of the freaking room so long as Stiles wasn't forced to actually acknowledge them. He supposed Peter had the same right to privacy.

Well, minus whatever Stiles had already read in the Hale murder file.

But then the casserole— an old pasta-veggie bake recipe of his mom's— was in the oven, leaving Stiles with a throbbing ankle, itchy patches of dried semen, and no ideas for how to entertain Peter for forty to fifty minutes while the food baked. Stiles ruffled a hand through his hair as he racked his brain for the _least_ lame way to pass the time.

He tossed an errant veggie peeler into the sink and turned to face Peter. "So— whoa!"

Stiles's arms flailed around, nearly smacking Peter in the jaw as he grabbed at the man's shirt for stability because his feet were no longer touching the ground. Peter had scooped him up as though he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes, instead of the 147 pounds of gangly human teenager that he really was. And _fuck_, Stiles _really_ shouldn't find it so arousing. Maybe he _was_ starting to develop a 'damsel' complex…

Peter pivoted smoothly and started off towards the hall, carrying Stiles bride-style.

"Hey, uh… what the fuck, dude?"

Snorting softly, Peter rolled his eyes.

Close as he was, Stiles could see every fleck and subtle change in color in them. He was secure enough in his masculinity to admit he found them _mesmerizing_.

"Making dinner is one thing, I was lenient with that, but letting you climb the stairs? On that ankle? I don't think so…" Peter trailed off, humming tunelessly as they started up the staircase.

Stiles raised an eyebrow at the werewolf. "My hero," he said, his voice flat with exaggerated sarcasm.

"You don't think I could pull off the dashing prince?" Peter mock-pouted at him as they reached the top (the dude wasn't even _winded_, how unfair was _that?_).

Stiles, helpful to the last, pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. "Oh, I have _no_ doubt that you could pull it off, but I wasn't born yesterday, buddy. A coin's got _two_ sides. The knight in shining armor? These days he's got two failed marriages and a gambling addiction. And that dashing prince? Ulterior motives out the ass. This ain't Disney, Prince Charming."

Peter wasn't even bothering to hide his smirk anymore.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Stiles asked, unsure if Peter actually appreciated his sarcasm or if his plight was being mocked.

Peter chuckled as he nudged open the bathroom door with his foot and set Stiles down carefully on the sink's counter top. "Oh, absolutely," he said with a genuine smile. "Now where are your medical supplies?" He looked at Stiles expectantly.

"Ah….actually…" Stiles gazed over the older man's shoulder to the shower behind him. "I was kind of hoping to…clean up…a little." He trailed a hand down his shirt to emphasize the point. "But you might want to lose some layers there. Unless you don't mind getting soaked?"

That snapped Peter's attention back to Stiles from where it had briefly wandered to the shower stall. He cocked his head at Stiles, his expression unreadable. "You want me in the shower with you?"

"Well, purely in the interest of safety," Stiles shrugged, trying to pull off 'blasé' instead of 'hopeful virgin'. "You don't want me fall or anything, do you? I mean, you were so helpful with the stairs, I just figured it would suck if all that effort went to waste."

He leaned back on the counter, spreading his legs only the _tiniest _bit.

The movement still caught Peter's eye and his bearing became decidedly _wolfish_ as he stepped into Stiles's space. He brushed his hands teasingly over Stiles's thighs. "Aren't you worried about my… ulterior motives?" Peter whispered, his eyes flashing.

Stiles swallowed roughly at the reminder that he was, essentially, playing with fire.

Or baiting a starving wolf.

_If Peter started licking his chops, the picture would be complete_, Stiles thought, dazedly, as he stared at the man's lips.

Peter's light, musky scent was surrounding him, tantalizing him, driving him to act out and push his luck. It amazed Stiles that slightest attention from Peter was enough to bring out his inner slut. Maybe he had the wolf analogy backwards…

Stiles reached out to press his hand to Peter's chest. Feeling the quickened patter of the man's heart bolstered his confidence. He pulled Peter forward by his shirt, angling his head to speak into Peter's ear. "Yeah," Stiles whispered, his voice husky to his own ears, "but aren't you curious about mine?"

He playfully nipped at Peter's earlobe, earning him a throaty rumble from Peter's chest.

Peter dipped his head to nuzzle at Stiles's throat, breathing in deeply and taking in the teen's arousal. He raised his head to level a stern look at Stiles. "Shower first," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Then he tugged Stiles off the counter by his hips and set him back on his feet.

"Aw, come on…" Stiles half-heartedly griped as Peter put space between them. A quick glance down at Peter's crotch ruled out lack of interest on the werewolf's part—the guy was at _least_ half hard.

"You've already talked your way out of wrapping that ankle twice now," Peter replied, all business. He bent at the waist and started untying his laces. "Once you're clean, you're going horizontal for as long as I can keep you there."

Stiles snorted, mirroring Peter, tackling his own laces and kicking off his shoes and socks. "'Talked my way out', yeah, ok. Like I— wait, 'horizontal'?" He paused, halfway out of his dirt-covered hoodie, his mind overflowing with the possibilities of 'horizontal'.

He smiled slyly at Peter. "That a threat or a promise, Lazarus?" Stiles quipped, pulling off his Captain America tee and tossing it to the floor. He watched, transfixed (and a little jealous) as Peter slowly unbuttoned his black shirt with confidence and precision.

Little by little, Peter's chest was revealed, toned with a light covering of hair. Stiles badly wanted to touch, to drag his fingers down Peter's front and feel the contrast of soft hair over hard muscle.

"And if it's both?" Peter asked, smug from Stiles's open admiration.

Stiles went to reply, but the words died in his throat when the older man deftly unbuckled his belt. Peter flicked open the button and ever so slowly dragging down the zip. A soft whine left Stiles as Peter shoved everything down all at once. The man kicked the last of his clothing away to stand naked in all his glory, his gorgeous cock jutting proudly at Stiles.

Peter grinned at the teen's unabashed stare. "Coming?" he asked, flitting his gaze up and down Stiles's half-nude form before turning to start the shower.

Silently thanking the older man for the moment of privacy, Stiles tore off his remaining clothes and joined Peter in the shower stall, closing the door behind him. The tight globes of Peter's ass distracted Stiles enough that he started when Peter turned back to face him, having adjusted the water's temperature to his liking.

Now, while the shower wasn't _huge_ or anything, there was still enough room for two men to stand comfortably under the spray of water.

Well, sort of.

This being his first time naked with _another_ naked person, Stiles was understandably insecure. He found himself looking at everything _except_ Peter, highly aware of how close his erection was to the man's hip. Stiles could feel a flush spreading across his face and it was aggravating.

_Stupid_, he derisively thought to himself. _You can hump the guy fully clothed, but God forbid should Peter actually _see_ your cock._

Jeez, if all of his future nude interactions were going to be this awkward, he should probably quit now while he still had some self-respect.

A soaped- up hand pressed low on his abdomen and Stiles jumped, groaning when his cock accidentally brushed against Peter's forearm.

The older man chuckled at the surprised confusion on Stiles's face. "Since I helped make the mess, I'll help you clean up," he said, mischievously, his blunt nails scraping gently at the dried come matted in Stiles's happy trail.

For some reason, Stiles felt the pulls on his hair as though Peter was directly touching his dick. The little jolts made him shiver. Peter scrubbed at his skin, gradually removing the evidence of their forest tryst— but he ignored Stiles's throbbing cock. It was maddening, the werewolf was touching him everywhere but the spot he wanted it most. Stiles had to bite his lip to stop himself from whimpering.

When Peter angled the shower head to rinse off the suds, Stiles found his voice again. "Awfully nice of you," he croaked out, his throat tight with repressed need.

Peter smiled absently as he soaped Stiles up again, carefully working at the remaining patches on his belly and in his pubic hair. "We take care of those in our pack," said Peter. There was a far-off look in his eyes that Stiles recognized— he'd seen it in his dad's eyes when he was remembering mom.

"Um, but I'm not pack," Stiles tentatively said, "not in _Derek's_, anyway." Not that Stiles was aware of…

"But you _are_ part of Scott's pack," Peter continued. "I was the one who turned him. There's still a connection and, by association, to you."

Stiles looked at him skeptically. "I suppose…" He really wasn't sure what to do with that.

"You're exceptionally loyal to Scott, for a human," remarked Peter, out of the blue. He scrapped at Stiles's belly again.

Stiles raised an incredulous brow at him. "Well, yeah, he's my best friend. Bros do that kind of thing."

"And?"

Stiles frowned at Peter. "'And' what?" He got the feeling that, even though Peter seemed engrossed with his self-appointed task, the werewolf was covertly scrutinizing him.

"Did you know I could sense you both, that night in the preserve? You and Scott?" Peter asked, teasing his claws through Stiles's soapy thatch, the sensation sending Goosebumps over his skin.

"Okay—"

"Two teenagers, roaming about in the woods at night, looking for things they shouldn't."

Stiles scowled at him. "Okay, what does—"

Peter cut him off again.

"The interesting thing about Scott is that, fundamentally, he's simple. I mean," Peter laughed under his breath, "if he had to choose between Allison and being a werewolf, he'd pick Allison, right?"

Stiles stayed silent this time, fairly certain that had been a rhetorical question.

"He only gets into trouble because _it_ finds _him_. He's not the type to go _looking_ for it." Peter flicked his attention back up to Stiles, staring into his eyes with a perceptiveness that sent alarm bells off in the teen's head. "Not like _you. _As the son of the town Sheriff, you catch glimpses of danger all the time, don't you? But instead of scaring you," Peter's claws drew abstractly across his belly, "you're...intrigued by it. You like the thrill danger brings you. Yes, you _do_."

Stiles stopped shaking his head silently in denial.

"You can't lie to me, Stiles, not when _this_," Peter wrapped his hand firmly around the base of Stiles's cock. Stiles gasped and bucked involuntarily. "Practically _screams_ the truth at me. _You're_ the reason Scott was out there that night, weren't you? _You_ dragged him out there, looking for danger, but _Scott_ was the one who found it. Is that why you've stayed with him, even in the times he wants to tear your throat out? Because of _guilt?_"

Peter released his hold on Stiles's cock, having proved his point.

Stiles trained his gaze on the anti-slip stickers on the shower floor.

They were a mixed pattern of flowers and ducks that his mom had planned out on a scrap of paper before painstakingly applying each one. But not even their associated memory could drive away Peter's words, needle-sharp and hitting closer to home than Stiles care for because they held a truth he couldn't escape.

Stiles had long-since acknowledged that his stupidity had brought an awful lot of responsibility down on his best friend's shoulders. Instead of ditching the drama, Stiles had stuck by him and helped where he could when everything went to shit. He gave a damn about his almost-brother. But the close calls — the times that Scott nearly _died_— cut Stiles to the core because there wasn't a goddamn thing he could do to fix his friend's 'werewolf problem'.

A large soapy hand cupped his chin and tilted it up, forcing Stiles to meet Peter's compassionate eyes.

"You don't need to feel guilty, Stiles. When a human is Bitten, their body has a choice: adapt or succumb. Scott's body _accepted_ the change, took the chance it was presented with to become something _more_, something _better_," Peter said earnestly, his thumb caressing Stiles's jaw.

"Every challenge Scott faces and walks away alive from is part of being a werewolf. It's a series of tests to _prove_ that you have what it takes to rise up and survive what gets thrown at you. What Scott's going through will only make him realize what his body already understands: that he's been gifted with an opportunity to be more than he otherwise would have been. You think he would have had a _chance_ with his beloved Allison without having the edge of his new abilities? You think she would have looked twice at a benched asthmatic lacrosse player? He should be _thanking_ you. _Everything_ he loves and fights for, he has because _you_."

Peter released his face in favor of tugging him under the spray of water. The werewolf rinsed off the remaining suds and filth as he pressed feather-light kisses to Stiles's jaw.

Stiles leaned into Peter, his eyes vacant as he ruminated over Peter's view of the matter.

He had always blamed himself in part or Scott's 'curse', but all things considered…the dude wasn't _dead_, whether from Stiles's support, dumb luck, or some weird combination of the two. It was easy to see the negative aspects of becoming a werewolf (like the murderous urges and the occasional hunter), but if a 'born' werewolf could tote the positives…how bad could being a werewolf really be?

Maybe what it came down to was having proper management skills.

Peter rubbed shampoo into Stiles's hair (Stiles didn't even bother questioning how the man could tell which shampoo was his). On a whim, Stiles scooped up some of the lather on his head and began working it into Peter's longer locks with both hands, mostly to have a reason to touch Peter's hair again.

Peter smiled, bemused. "What are you doing?"

Stiles shrugged, massaging the man's scalp in tiny circles. "Making you smell like me."

For a moment, Peter completely froze. Then, without warning, Stiles found himself against the shower wall with the back of his head cradled in one of Peter's clawed hands, his front covered in wet, soapy werewolf.

Peter's hard cock ground against Stiles's.

Correction: wet, soapy, _aroused_ werewolf.

Stiles's moan was swallowed by the older man, their lips clashing together in a messy, heated kiss. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd done to flip _Peter's _switch, but he really needed to figure it out if _this_ was the result.

Stiles's hands tangled in Peter's hair because that was an awesome place for them to be while Peter pawed frantically at Stiles's wet skin with his free hand. Stiles whimpered and writhed against the older man, pinned between him and the wall.

Then, just as abruptly, Peter pulled out of the kiss and turned his head away.

At first, Stiles thought that Peter had had a change of heart, but the tilt of his head and the intensity of his fixed stare— as though he could see through the wall he was looking at— gave Stiles the strong impression of a pointing dog. "What?" he asked, Peter's stillness making him uneasy.

"Someone's here," Peter said, softly, concentrating on the wall.

Fear shot through Stiles, his muscles tensing. "My dad's back?" _Shit_, there was no good way to explain to his dad why there was a thirty-something year old werewolf naked in the shower with him. Oh fuck fuck fuck _fuck…_

Peter shook his head slowly, his eyes glowing.

"No. It's Scott."


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles scrambled to get out of the shower and dove for the small closet in the corner. He ripped it open and grabbed two oversized fluffy towels, tossing one over his head behind him before frantically drying himself.

He didn't hear anything hit the floor so he assumed Peter had caught it.

When Peter had told him Scott was standing on his front porch, Stiles had rinsed off as much soap as he could in five seconds before leaving control of the shower to Peter. He was starting to think that the universe really was plotting against him—and his virginity. Why else would Scott show up _now_ when Stiles was covered from head to toe with a sexy, naked werewolf who wanted to do very naughty things to him?

It just wasn't fucking_ fair_. Scott got sexy times with Allison, when would Stiles get _his_ turn?

"Stupid werewolves and their stupid timing," he muttered angrily under his breath as he yanked his dirty jeans back on in violent tugs. He wasn't even going to try to wear his soiled boxers (he wasn't masochistic enough for that).

A soft chuckle made him pause on his way out of the bathroom. He finished dragging his jacket back on and turned Peter.

Peter— dry, for the most part— was pulling on his clothes as well, amused at Stiles's frustration.

Stiles felt his brain shift closer to overload. _Shit_. He had a werewolf in his bathroom, another at the front door, and (if he didn't figure out how to deal with _both_ of them) dinner was going to become a casualty. Tonight was going steadily downhill.

"Um," he said, nervously fiddling with his jacket sleeve.

Peter raised an eyebrow at Stiles's pensive expression as he draped his shirt over his frame, fastening the buttons quicker than a normal human being could. It took a lot of will-power to stop Stiles from marching over to the older man to tear the shirt back off, but his best friend was at the door, and trying to fuse his face with Peter's _really_ wasn't going to make his 'Scott situation' go away.

"Would you like me to stay up here?" Peter offered, wryly, when Stiles's attention remained glued to his water-dotted neck.

Stiles mentally shook off his Peter-induced stupor. "_Yes,_ that is a great idea. You stay here and, uh, I'll go see what he wants." _And hopefully make him go away_, he thought as he slipped out of the bathroom, his bare feet slapping comically on the hardwood floor of the hall. He trotted gracelessly down the stairs, hoping Scott had the patience to wait for him rather than simply trying his luck with a window.

The doorbell sounded just as he reached the bottom of the stairwell. "Hold on a second, I'm coming!" Stiles called as he crossed to the door, thankful that his erection had long-since wilted.

He took a deep, calming breath and unlocked the door, pulling it open to smile in pretend-surprise at seeing Scott on his front porch.

"Hey buddy, didn't think I'd hear from—"

"Stiles, what the hell? I've tried calling you, like, ten times and you haven't answered any of my texts!"

Oh…

Before prepping dinner with Peter, Stiles had tossed his phone on the kitchen table. It was routine for him to place it where he could see the caller ID should someone (i.e. his dad) try to contact him when he was busy cooking. Today hadn't been the exception to the rule. Stiles hadn't had a chance to grab it before Peter toted him up to the bathroom, so while he had been getting soapy with Peter, his phone must have been blowing up in the kitchen. And he was fairly certain that the older man had been too distracted to care about a ringing cell phone.

A rival werewolf on the other hand… _that_ he'd noticed.

"Ah…" he dragged out, rubbing the back of his neck, absently.

Scott's eyes zeroed in on his throat and worry etched into his frown. He stepped closer, staring at Peter's livid marks.

Fuck. In his haste, Stiles had forgotten all about them.

"Stiles, what the hell happened to—" Scott froze in his tracks, his outstretched hand inches from the bruised skin. His nostrils flared, scenting the air.

Stiles backed away slowly, holding his hands up in surrender as Scott stalked forward. Little by little, he was forced back into the house under his friend's glowing stare.

"Why do you smell like _Peter?_" Scott asked, his voice gruff around his growing fangs.

"Dude, whoa, calm down, alright? I'm fine, Scott, look at me," Stiles patted himself down one handedly. "I'm _fine_," Stiles emphasized, keeping his tone as even as possible despite how hard his heart was pounding in his chest.

He retreated backwards down the hall, matching Scott step for step, fighting his body's instinct to all-out run from the advancing predator.

"He hurt you," Scott growled, his gaze fixed on Stiles's bruised throat.

"What? No! No, this isn't— he didn't— I mean, he _did_, but, oh God, come on Scott, just—"

Stiles's heel hit solid wood. The obstacle caught him off guard and he overbalanced, crashing backwards onto the stairs. His breath gusted out in an agonized 'oof' as his entire weight fell onto the edges of five or six stairs.

He watched helplessly as Scott prowled closer to his sprawled body with a fear he hadn't felt since his friend's first full moon.

A deep, vicious growl erupted from somewhere above Stiles, who partially contorted his body so he could look up at the top of the landing. Peter, completely wolfed out, was steadily descending the steps, staring Scott down. Stiles had never been so happy to see the older werewolf, despite being able to see Peter's extended fangs and unsheathed claws.

"Pull it back, Scott, before you hurt Stiles," Peter warned, coming to a halt on the step above the shaking teen.

"Like _you_ hurt him?" Scott barked back, hunching menacingly. Stiles eased back as much as he could, his shoulders pressed against Peter's shins in his effort to put space between himself and his friend's misplaced rage.

"Stiles, have I hurt you?" Peter asked softly, his eyes on Scott.

"No, I'm fine— Scott, come on dude, calm down before I have to get the fire department out here to put out my dinner," Stiles implored, trembling between the two wolves.

Confusion replacing his anger, Scott's yellow eyes faded to their normal brown as he took in Stiles's cowering form. He frowned down at Stiles, clearly struggling to understand. "But your neck is all bruised… and you smell like _him_…"

Peter released a long-suffering sigh and crouched down behind Stiles.

Feeling the heat of the older man shift closer, Stiles tipped his head back and leaned back further into the protective curve of Peter's body. The smell of his own shampoo mixed with Peter's natural scent lulled him, soothing his stressed out nerves.

Peter gently ran his fingers across the love bites on Stiles's throat. The memory of the older man sucking and biting each one to life made his breath hitch and his eyelids droop lazily. Fuck, just having Peter so close and _touching him_ made Stiles shiver. Desire flooded his system. When Peter tilted his head towards him, Stiles reacted without thought, meeting Peter's lips eagerly, begging entrance into his still-fanged mouth with a flick of tongue. He whined, disappointed, when Peter pulled away to watch Scott, his arms wrapped possessively around Stiles's chest.

_Scott._

Wow, he'd _actually_ forgotten about Scott, all from one tiny kiss. That should be worrying, right? That Peter could completely extinguish his fight-or-flight instinct at the drop of a hat? He told himself it would be much worse of Peter wasn't a bad-ass creature of the night with a soft spot for a certain hyperactive teenager.

But it didn't seem like that revelation would be appreciated by his (now) traumatized best friend.

Scott's mouth was hanging wide open in disbelief.

"Uh, Scott?" Stiles waved his hand at his buddy's stunned face. He hoped the movement would snap Scott out of whatever funk he had fallen into because Stiles _really_ didn't feel like moving out of Peter's loose embrace.

For personal safety.

Mostly.

"I…you…" Scott visibly floundered, his eyes darting between Stiles and Peter as he tried to reconcile reality with whatever was going on inside his head. Eventually, he frowned down at Stiles as though he'd done something wrong. "But what about Lydia?"

Okay, _ouch_.

Stiles flinched, unaccountably feeling guilty.

It wasn't like there had been a _real_ possibility of him and Lydia becoming a thing. Stiles had made his position very clear (several times over several years) and Lydia had still chosen Jackson—in front of the pack(s), the Argents, and an emotionally crushed Stiles. It wasn't going to happen and he had made his peace with it. But it wasn't fair of Scott to throw his unrequited love in his fucking face. Quite frankly, his face had suffered enough lately.

Stiles rubbed at the back of his neck. "What about her?" he asked, wearily.

Scott stared at him incredulously. "_'What about her?'_ Dude, you've been crazy about her for _years_ and now you act like you don't care? And what about _this?_ I didn't even know you were _gay!_" He leaned against the wall, as though his whole world had just fallen apart.

Stiles mentally snorted. _He should see the state of _mine. What a fucking mess…

"Scott, she's with Jackson. I get that. I can respect that. _He's _what she wants, not me. And I'm not gay, I'm bi. There's a difference. I can still appreciate a set of curves, okay? I've been curious for a while, but I've never had the chance to…be proactive about it." Stiles supposed it was a nicer way of saying 'sorry, but I've never found a guy willing to let me mack on them before'.

"Um…okay," Scott's eyes flicked between them, noticeably uncomfortable. His nose was crinkled, like he smelled something offensive…

Shit, Scott could probably _smell_ what they'd done. Stiles had put on the first clothes he'd seen without a thought. In retrospect, it probably hadn't been a great idea, confronting a werewolf in come-covered clothes.

Stiles hunched in, belatedly realizing that he reeked even though he couldn't smell it.

Peter's arm pulled him closer into the man's chest, comfortingly, as though he knew what was making Stiles self-conscious. Pressing back, Stiles smiled to himself. Fuck Scott's nose, he smelled like _Peter_. Contentment flowed through him. He rather liked smelling like the older man, like he was _owned_.

Was this what being 'pack' felt like?

Both Stiles and Scott jumped when the raucous chattering of the kitchen timer rang down the hall. Either Peter had better control of his reflexes or he'd known the damn timer was going to go off because he hadn't so much as twitched at the god-awful noise.

"Dinner's ready," Stiles piped up helpfully, grateful for the break in tension.

Peter leaned around to look at him. "Do you want me to get that, Darling?" There was an infectious glimmer in his ice-blue eyes and a playful twist to his lips. Deciding to dig a little at Scott's expense, Stiles played along. He made a show of snuggling closer to Peter. "Would you?" he simpered, batting his lashes for flare.

The bug-eyed look on Scott's face was far more satisfying than it should have been.

Peter pressed a quick kiss to the side of his head before standing in a long, sinuous movement. "Thank you, dear!" Stiles called after him. Peter chuckled softly, ignoring Scott's death glare as he sauntered his way to the kitchen.

Scott jerked his thumb in the older man's direction. "You _do_ know he can still here us from in there, right?"

Shrugging, Stiles gingerly moved off of the staircase and carefully stretched the muscles of his bruising back. "It's the illusion. He gets it." Stiles waved Scott to follow him down the hall to the open front door. Once they were out on the darkened porch, Stiles firmly closed the door, internally readying himself for a fight. Scott was leaning back against one of the support beams. He had his arms crossed and a 'what the fuck?' look on his face that Stiles could make out even in the dark.

Stiles released a sigh and shoved his hands inside his jacket pockets, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Why _Peter?_" finally came, after a few moments of strained silence.

Some of the tension drained out of Stiles's limbs. 'Why Peter?', not 'why a guy?'. Part of Stiles had worried that Scott finding out he was more than 'curious' about guys would be a problem, that it would change their 'dynamic' or whatever. But Scott didn't seem to care that Peter was a guy so much that he was, well…Peter.

Stiles ran a trembling hand through his hair. "I…don't really know," he admitted.

And it was true. He _didn't_ know why Peter's touch made him forget his own name or why just one heated stare from the werewolf set his blood afire. All he did know was that he didn't want it to _stop_, not before it had a chance to get anywhere. As it was, Stiles already wanted to hit Scott for his newest set of blue balls.

Scott's eyes were wide, disbelieving. "You don't know why you did him? Really?"

Stiles scowled at him. "I haven't done him, okay? Way to make me sound like a slut," he said defensively, ignoring the fact that he had been well on his way to letting Peter into his pants before Scott came along.

Raising an eyebrow skeptically, Scott looked pointedly at Stiles's clothes. "Then why do you smell," he jabbed a finger at the door, "like, I don't know, like you've been letting him mount you or something? You're _covered_ in his scent."

"_'Mount _me?' Are you serious? He's not an animal."

"He's a werewolf," Scott shot back in an angry whisper. "You don't get it, he's _dangerous_."

Eyes narrowing at Scott, Stiles felt his temper flaring.

"_I_ don't understand? What is it exactly that _I_ don't understand? About how _strong_ werewolves are? How they could _rip me to shreds_— especially on a _full moon?_ Tell me what I _don't understand_ about how my best fucking friend could _kill_ me if he lost control. 'Cause believe me, I am more aware than _any_ of you of how fucking fragile I am in comparison. I _already_ get it, Scott, I don't need a reminder."

Irritated, he kicked at a porch beam.

"What I _don't_ get," Stiles said, bravely taking a step towards Scott, "is how you have the audacity to harp at me for getting with a werewolf when you'renot exactly stopping _yourself_ from being with Allison. From all of your lovely stories about your 'fun times'," emphasizing with air quotes, "it doesn't sound like you've had too much trouble _not_ tearing her apart."

"But he could—"

"Yeah, he probably could. But if you're worried about him hurting me in 'the heat of the moment'" Stiles said, gratuitously using air quotes again, "then _don't_, okay? Not every werewolf has difficulty reigning in their urges. Peter's a werewolf from _birth_, dude. He's got more than a few months experience in keeping his claws to himself."

Scott had the constipated look of someone who knew they were backed into a corner. "What if he's using you?" Stiles's heart skipped hard, the question hitting squarely on his doubts. "Come on, Stiles, he's twice our age. He's probably some kind of pervert trying to hook up with a high school student."

Rolling his eyes, Stiles snorted derisively. "Did he try anything with you?"

That seemed to throw Scott for a loop. He tilted his head in confusion. "…no, why?"

_God, he's such a clueless puppy_, Stiles mentally bemoaned. "Because you're man-prettier than me. Besides, if he wanted into a high schooler's pants, don't you think it would have been _way_ easier to try for the teenager he _bit?_ One he _already_ had a freaking mental connection with that he could use to get his way?"

Scott blinked dumbly at him.

Guess he hadn't thought of _that_.

"Okay, fine, but he tried to get with my _Mom!_" Scott whined, clearly offended by the memory.

Sighing, Stiles leaned back against the front door. "Dude, if I thought I wouldn't get smacked down like a fly, _I'd_ probably hit on her. Not that I ever have!" he said quickly, holding a hand out to pacify his friend's indignation. "Or ever will. Like, _ever_."

Calmed down but by no means mollified, Scott looked at him askance. "I don't like the feel of this. What if he's just using you for kicks? Or if it's some fucked up power play of Derek's? I don't want you to get hurt," Scott whispered.

And there it was, Scott's hero complex shining through, regular as clockwork. Stiles found it less annoying when it wasn't _completely cock-blocking him_. Not that he didn't appreciate being on Scott's priority list of people-to-save, but if Scott had his way, Stiles was going to stay a virgin for the rest of high school.

"Scott," he began wearily, "I don't want to get hurt either, but my odds of finishing high school unscathed dropped _significantly_ when werewolves came back to Beacon Hills. If I'm gonna get hurt, I'd at least like a say in who does it. _Please_, can you just trust me in this? If it goes to shit, I promise you can say 'I told you so' for, like, a month, okay? Please?"

He backed his plea with puppy eyes, folding his hands together mock-prayer style.

Scott's face scrunched up as he bit his lip, regarding Stiles pensively.

When Scott's shoulders slumped, Stiles knew he'd won. He bounced excitedly on his toes and cocked his elbows back, clenching his fists victoriously. He threw his arms around Scott in a boisterous hug, grinning like a mad man. Or at least he was until Scott jerked out of his embrace to hold him at arm's length.

"Yeah, I love you too, buddy," Scott said, his voice strained and his head turned away from Stiles. "But you _really_ need a shower."

Stiles blinked at him. "We just had a shower," he said, unthinkingly. "But then Peter heard you get here and I didn't have time to find clean clo—"

"Wait, what? 'We'? 'We' took a shower? As in you and _Peter?_" Scott looked faintly queasy.

"Well yeah," Stiles shrugged, as though it was normal for him to shower with thirty year old men. It certainly wouldn't be the _weirdest_ thing he'd ever done. "Needed to get stuff off of me and Peter wanted to help." "Argh," Scott groaned, closing his eyes. "And then you got here," Stiles continued oblivious to his friend's discomfort, "and I wasn't about to open the door _naked_." _"Argh_," Scott groaned louder, clutching at his hair in dismay. "So we had to put out dirty clothes back on 'cause we didn't have time to hunt for clean ones," Stiles finished, reasonably.

"_Stiles_," Scott ground out, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Bad visuals. _Please_, no more visuals."

Stiles winced when he realized that Scott was cringing away from more than his 'smell'. "Ah… I've scarred you for life, haven't I?" he asked, sympathizing. Payback really was a bitch. Lord only knows how many times he'd had to endure Scott's reiterations of his undying love for Allison.

Oh well…

Understanding as he was of Scott's aversion to his new-found sex life, Stiles still couldn't keep from smiling. He backed up to lean against the door and ruffled his hair, stupidly happy for gaining Scott's pseudo-permission. Not that he _needed_ it, but…it was still nice, having one less person to hide this from— whatever _this_ proved to be.

"Hey, uh," Stiles gestured over his shoulder to the house, "you wanna come in? Dinner's ready and there's enough to feed a pack of wolves in there," he joked, trying to lighten his friend's mood.

"Ah," Scott glanced fleetingly at the door behind Stiles. "Naw, I think I'll just…go. I'll, uh, leave you to your…date…thing," he said, shaking his head in bemusement as he hopped off the porch.

Stiles was twisting the doorknob when a thought struck him.

He whirled around and half-dangled over the porch railing, calling out to Scott in his loudest 'whisper'.

"Yo, Scott?"

Scott paused halfway to his car and turned to look at him. "What?" he stage-whispered back.

Stiles hesitated for a moment, wondering if Peter really _was_ listening in, then gave a mental 'fuck it'. "If things get, uh, _really good_, I can tell ya, right?"

Even in the dull lighting from the street light and waxing moon, Stiles could see the twist in Scott's face, like he'd eaten something that didn't agree with him. It was a mark of how good of a friend Scott was that he ducked his head with a 'yeah' instead of flat out shutting Stiles down like he probably wanted.

Stiles swallowed his urge to crow, settling for watching Scott drive off, leaving him alone in the dark on the porch.

Silently thanking whatever deity that watched over him for giving him such a laid-back friend, he sighed and reentered the house, ready to turn his attention back to the werewolf in his kitchen.

_Ha_, he thought, as he walked down the hall. _Sounds like the title of a children's book. 'The Werewolf in my Kitchen'…hmm, or maybe a bad porno…_

Pain spiked up his leg when Stiles's ankle shifted under his weight. He shouted as he crumpled to the floor, barely throwing his arms out in time to avoid breaking his nose. He groaned, cursing that same sadistic deity for playing with him like a goddamn yo-yo.

A jean-covered knee dropped next to his face.

"Are you alright?" Peter asked, worry in his tone.

"Yeah, 'm 'kay," Stiles forced out, his face beet-red with embarrassment. At least Peter hadn't _seen_ his little swan dive.

Slowly, he turned over, helped by Peter's strong, guiding hands. He stared up at the ceiling, infinitely annoyed. When he'd imagined lying on his back underneath the older man, this wasn't quite how he'd pictured the circumstances.

Peter's hands skimmed over his clothing, feeling out for injuries he couldn't immediately see.

"My ankle gave," Stiles grumbled, squirming as the older man brushed the inside of his kneecap (he was ticklish there).

Peter hummed noncommittally as he stood. "Stay here. I'll only be a moment." And then he was gone. Seriously, Stiles had blinked and the dude vanished. Deciding to give his abused body a rest, Stiles closed his eyes and laid as still as possible, trying to ignore the ache setting into his limbs. He heard something rest near his head with a dull 'thump' and he panicked, his eyes shooting open as he flailed wildly on the floor.

Peter had returned with the medical kit.

"_Jesus_ Christ," Stiles groaned. His body went limp with relief even as his heart drummed fast in his chest. And wasn't that strange?— subconsciously, he seemed to have already dismissed Peter as a threat…

"I'm gonna have to already put a bell on you," Stiles said, glaring half-heartedly up at the older man.

Peter merely smirked as he dug through the Stilinski tackle box of miscellaneous medical supplies. "Implying that you'd like to see more of me if you're willing to make that much of an effort," he remarked as he pulled out a long bandage wrap, unfurling the stretchy material.

Awkwardly, Stiles propped himself up on his elbows, wincing as his back muscles protested the movement. Lying flat out in the hall was starting to make him feel vulnerable.

Coincidentally, the new position brought him closer to Peter and, well… that was enough to make him forget a lot more than discomfort.

"It wouldn't be the _worst_ thing if you came over more often," Stiles said, jerking his shoulders up briefly in a hampered shrug. "You're kinda useful to have around. Kitchen assistant, personal aid, and now medic?— you should be wondering how I'm gonna let you _leave_," he teased.

Stiles dragged his injured leg up obligingly and Peter rolled up his pant leg.

Ew.

Feeling the pain was one thing, but _this_— actually _seeing_ the swollen, purple-tinged tissue— somehow made his ankle throb even worse. Stiles bit his lip against a whimper. He nearly jerked away when Peter closed his hand around the damaged flesh, expecting a surge of pain, but instead he froze with disbelief.

Out in the forest, Stiles hadn't been able to see what Peter had been doing, could only feel it, and all he'd felt was the pain leaving him. But now he could see perfectly, could see the veins in Peter's hand and arm turn black, stark against the pallor of his skin, as though something noxious was seeping up through them from his hand to the rest of his body.

_Or being absorbed_, he thought with dawning horror.

Peter was _absorbing_ his pain.

Stiles's jaw dropped, surprise muting him as Peter gently began to wind the bandage around his ankle.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Peter glanced up, his surprise quickly masked. He minutely shook his head." It's no trouble," he murmured as he tucked in the bandage end.

"I didn't mean the wrap," Stiles said. "That thing you did, with the pain. You didn't have to do that."

Peter tugged Stiles's jeans down, his eyes focused on where he was silently fussing with straightening the material.

Stiles frowned at the lack of response so he pinned the older man's hand to his leg. That at least got him an arched brow and something of a smirk, like Stiles had performed a clever trick by being so forward. "Seriously," he said, holding Peter's amused gaze. "Thank you." He hesitated momentarily before giving in to his curiosity for all things werewolf. "Does it…does it hurt you, when you do that?" Stiles hated the miniscule tremor in his voice as he spoke.

It was kind of 'bass-ackwards', really, worrying about Peter's well-being over a little "sprain pain". Where was this inner Mother Teresa of his when he'd lobbed a Molotov Cocktail at the guy?

Peter seemed likewise intrigued, regarding Stiles with an uncomfortable intensity. "It does, but it passes. Our bodies don't hold pain for long." His gaze lingered on the fading bruises on Stiles's face then dropped to his throat, eyeing the marks on he'd personally left on it a few hours ago. A small furrow appeared between his brows as he frowned, reaching out to caress a particularly deep bruise that sported teeth marks.

The touch didn't draw the reaction Peter had been looking for, if his surprised approval was any indication.

When Peter's hand had cupped his neck and stroked the mark with his thumb, Stiles had sucked in his breath in a hiss and leaned into the pressure. Humming contemplatively, Peter scraped a sharp talon over the same spot, his eyes flashing bright blue at Stiles's tiny moan. He seemed to like that Stiles didn't shy away from the less than gentle attention— which was good because Stiles kept picturing Peter leaving a set of handprints on his hips.

Peter's nostrils flared.

He flashed Stiles a toothy smile. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked absently, letting him go to pack up the med kit.

"Ah, I've got a few ideas. More than a few, actually, to be honest. Feel free to ask, I am _all_ about sharing," Stiles yammered, disappointed that Peter had pulled away from him _again_.

The med box snapped shut.

Heat coiled low in Stiles's belly at Peter's smoldering gaze.

"Oh, I have a few ideas of my own," Peter purred, straightening in a lithe motion that was more cat-like than wolf. He held a hand out to Stiles and pulled him to his feet. Relief washed over Stiles as his ankle held firm and true under his weight. His arms shot up into the air as he whooped joyfully. Shaking his head at the display, Peter waved for Stiles to follow him to the kitchen. Stiles shadowed him, his ankle hardly troubling him after the older man's ministrations.

The glorious smell of the casserole surrounded him as he stepped into the kitchen and his attention immediately zeroed in on the stove where the dish sat, cooling.

"You know, we should collaborate," Stiles said coyly, digging a serving spoon out of a drawer. "You share _your_ ideas, I'll toss out _mine_, and we'll see if we can't find something…mutually satisfying." He was in the middle of splitting the dish into sections with the spoon when a solid line of muscle and heat molded to his back.

"Hmm…sounds like a long list," Peter murmured into his ear, his hands massaging Stiles's hips.

Stiles's breath hitched, torn between the food before him and the werewolf behind him. Just as he was about to go with Option #2, he felt Peter stiffen against him— and not the "good" kind. "What is it? What's wrong?" Stiles froze, his voice cracking with his rising anxiety.

"If I'm not mistaken, it's a Beacon Hills police cruiser," Peter said, his calm, even tone at odds with his rigid body language.

The spoon slipped from Stiles's limp fingers into the casserole.

"I am so dead," Stiles whispered, the irony of having spoken similar words in Peter's presence completely flying over his head as his breathing quickened to match his racing heartbeat.

He broke from the older man's half-embrace to dash across the room to the kitchen doorway, skidded to a halt, turned back a split second later to dash back towards the stove, stopped again, then began dancing back and forth from foot to foot as he gripped his hair in frustration.

"Shit, shit, _shit_. He can't— you— I don't even— oh my _God_, oh shit, oh fuckfuck_fuck_…"

Stiles swore under his breath as he freaked out in the middle of the kitchen, terrified that his father was about to stumble across more than one of his secrets tonight. He was dangerously close to having a panic attack and he couldn't find the will to stop it; his thoughts were scattered to the winds and it was all he could do just to _breathe_.

Warmth surrounded his face and he blinked at Peter in surprise. The older man was cupping his cheeks in his large hands, standing so close that his eyes encompassed most of Stiles's field of vision. And just like that, Stiles felt his pulse begin to drop and his breathing even out under the mesmerizing clarity of Peter's ice-blue eyes.

"Calm down, Stiles. It's fine. I'll leave out the back so you won't have to worry," Peter soothed lowly, stroking the teen's cheekbones with his thumbs. He pulled away and started for the back door.

"Wait!" Stiles blurted, a thought breaking free from the chaos of his mind.

Peter turned and watched patiently as Stiles threw open a cupboard and retrieved a plastic container. Hurriedly, Stiles shoveled a helping or two (or three) into it, sealing it with a lid. Grabbing a fork from the cutlery drawer, Stiles held both it and the container out to Peter.

"Here, since things got cut short. Don't want to renege on my promise to feed you."

Peter stared at him, looking amazed and amused all at once as he took the offered meal.

In the silence of the house, even Stiles could hear the faint click of the front door unlocking, closing seconds later with a reverberating slam. Stiles's heart jumped into his throat. His father most likely wouldn't come straight to the kitchen, but that still left precious few theoretical seconds before his dad caught him with the thirty-something year old werewolf.

_Fuck_ this was going to be close and Peter, Peter was…what was Peter doing? Why was he putting his food down on the counter?

Stiles opened his mouth to ask the other man what he was doing when Peter used his speed to dive in and seal his lips to Stiles's.

Peter's wicked tongue swept into his slack mouth and tangled forcefully with his own, startling a soft moan from Stiles. Eyes drifting shut, Stiles instinctively wrapped his arms around Peter's neck as he lost himself in the rough, biting kiss, letting the older man press him against the counter. A drawer handle dug into his hip, but it could have been a knife for all Stiles cared. He had Peter's mouth on him, had talon-tipped fingers on his hips, pinning him in place and preventing Stiles from arching against him, and _God_ that was frustrating because all Stiles wanted to do was rub his hardening cock against Peter until he _came_—

"Hey, Stiles?" his dad called, his voice echoing from down the hall.

Alarmed, Stiles ripped away from Peter's intoxicating lips, yanking his hands off the man's shoulders as though he'd been burned. Peter used the opportunity to back away, smirking as he slid his dinner off the counter and sauntered to the back door.

Great, now he was hard on top of everything else.

Irritated, Stiles ruffled his hair and glared at the retreating werewolf. But not pouting. He was _definitely_ not pouting. "You're evil," he muttered, shifting himself more comfortably in his pants.

Peter merely winked— actually fucking _winked_— at him and slipped out the door. Unfortunately, he closed it hard enough to jostle the miniature cowbells attached to the top of it, their happy jingle mocking him.

"Stiles?"

Well, fuck. So much for the discrete exit.

Stiles groaned. "I'm in the kitchen, Dad. Dinner's ready."

He got out plates and started setting the table, if only to have something to do while his nerves recovered from so much shock. Between Scott and his own freaking father, he wasn't going to have to worry about protecting his virtue when they were inadvertently doing it for him. He was about to set the silverware when his phone went off, startling him into dropping them onto the table. Heart skipping away, he fumbled for the device and frowned at the screen.

What the… When did he ever text a 'Peter'? The only Peter he knew just left and— oh.

Huh.

So _that's_ what happens when you leave a werewolf alone in your kitchen: they program their number into your phone. Less awkward than asking for it, he supposed.

Curious, Stiles opened the message.

**Peter: Evil would be having no intention of finishing what I started. I can assure you, I'm not that cruel.**

Innocuous as it was, the text still sent a delicious frisson down his spine. This was a promise of more to come.

A grin wide enough to hurt spread across Stiles's face.


	4. Chapter 4

The floorboards creaked under Peter's feet as he entered the crumbling shell of his family home. Under his arm, wrapped in a pilfered towel, was the piping-hot container Stiles had given him.

"Hello, Derek," he murmured, fussing with a fold of the towel in favor of looking at the Alpha atop the staircase.

He continued on into the charred former den and settled himself at the rotting desk, unwinding the towel from the plastic dish.

Derek slunk into the room and leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Got an interesting phone call from Scott tonight," he said, watching as Peter opened the lid.

"Did you, now?" Peter said, flatly. He looked supremely unconcerned, spearing the steaming casserole.

"He's sixteen, Peter."

"I'm aware of that." Peter took a bite and groaned, his eyes fluttering. "Absolutely delicious," he said around his mouthful. "I'll have to remember to ask for the recipe. Would you like to try it?" he asked, gesturing to it with his fork.

Derek gave him a hard look. "He doesn't know what he's getting into."

Chuckling softly, Peter gathered another bite. "You'd be surprised. I think he knows _exactly_ what he's getting into. But it is touching how concerned you are for him, seeing as he's not in your pack."

"I'm not—"

"But he could be," Peter overrode. "It's a wonder that you haven't. Made him pack, I mean. You went out of your way to draw in the outcasts of Beacon Hills High, deliberately passing over the one teen there that would have had 'informed consent'— not to mention better control over himself from the start. Did you know that he coached Scott through his werewolf baby-steps? That's probably the most interesting thing I gleaned from Scott's mind: that a human trained him how to be a werewolf."

Derek glowered at him from the door way.

"Hmm…but I'm sure you did your best," Peter relented, taking another bite.

"I did consider him," came moments later while Peter chewed. At his uncle's skeptical glance, Derek turned defiant. "I _did_. But he's too loyal to Scott. It would have been more effort that he's worth— and that's even if he would have agreed in the first place."

"Excuses," Peter muttered, playing with a noodle. "You could have bit him anyway. Still could."

Snorting derisively, Derek rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Remind me how well that worked out with Scott."

Peter looked up sharply. "To compare Stiles with Scott is neither accurate nor fair. I didn't think I needed to explain that to you."

Huffing in aggravation, Derek pushed off the doorframe, taking a seat in a batter chair several feet away from Peter.

Silence reigned for a minute or two while Peter ate, willfully ignoring the relentless glare Derek was focusing on him. Finally, rolling his eyes, Peter slumped dramatically in his chair. "Are you sure you don't want any?" he asked with exasperation, waving the container in Derek's direction.

"Why Stiles?" Derek asked, ignoring the half-eaten casserole.

Cocking his head slightly, Peter set down the food, a pensive frown creasing his forehead. His eyes roved over Derek appraisingly.

"I'm not sure" he finally admitted, dropping his gaze down to his food, poking at it thoughtfully.

"You're not sure?" Derek spat out incredulously. "You're not sure why you're putting the moves on a sixteen year old kid? Who, apart from being _underage_, is the _Sheriff's son?_"

Peter raised a brow at him. "You're choosing _now_ to respect the law? I'll remind you that _all_ of your betas are under the age of consent and that _I'm_ not offering him a complete change in species and/or lifestyle."

He kicked the heavy desk out a bit so he could prop his feet up on it, digging into the casserole with renewed gusto.

Derek still didn't seem appeased. "Then what _are_ you offering him?"

A wicked smirk pulled at the older man's lips. "Are you sure you want to know?" Peter asked, teasingly.

Grimacing, Derek stood and moved towards the door. "Not really, considering the parties involved. But I'm not turning him," he threw over his shoulder.

Peter shrugged, looking disinterested. "Fair enough. He's more interesting as a human anyway. I might even keep him. Derek?"

The Alpha turned and grunted out a 'what'.

"Did you know that the human sense of smell is so closely linked with the limbic system that a particular scent can trigger memories from several years past, if the impression was strong enough? No one's ever done a study on werewolves, but I'm sure the results would be similar, if not even higher in regards to 'born' wolves."

Peter scraped at the sides of the dish, consolidating the left over bits into a pile.

Derek growled. "Okay, so what?"

Peter hummed, absorbed in his task. "Humans are also creatures of habit," he continued, as though Derek hadn't spoken. "Especially when it comes to buying things. They'll stick to something for _years_, if they like it enough. Take for instance, perfumes."

Derek tensed almost imperceptibly. Almost.

Peter smiled to himself.

"I was in town earlier today and a woman _drenched_ in perfume passed me in the street. Now, that in itself isn't strange. I've encountered countless women who lack restraint when using perfume, but _this_ time it really bothered me. The perfume, not the woman. It was like I'd smelled it before only I couldn't quite place it. I kept turning it over and over in my head for hours until, finally, it hit me. _Twice_ in particular I had registered the scent. The first was six years ago, when puberty was apparently doing _very_ well for you and you would come home _reeking_ of the stuff. The second was the night of my death, when I bled the Argent bitch dry."

Peter downed the last of the casserole with relish, taking care to lick the fork clean. After a moment, he turned his attention back to Derek, who was silent as the grave, gaze trained on the floor. "It's interesting, isn't it? That the bitch you used to fuck had the same taste in perfume as the one who slaughtered our family? I wonder what the odds of that happening are."

Peter dropped the fork into the container and snapped the lid over it, scooping the whole kit up with exaggerated nonchalance.

Sauntering like the predator he was, Peter confidently approached Derek and stood directly in front of him, taking in the pungent smell of guilt.

Derek was still avoiding his eyes.

"Perhaps before you start judging _my_ choice of partners, it might be more…prudent…for you to first examine your _own_," Peter said with mock-concern.

Stepping around his mute nephew, Peter left the room, a self-satisfied smile on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles flopped on top of his bed, burying his face into his pillow with a groan. He hadn't even bothered to turn on the light, exhausted as he was, so his room was illuminated only by the fiery light of sunset.

It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he'd stumbled across Peter in the woods and— if he wasn't sporting love bites on his neck—Stiles would have thought he had dreamt the whole encounter.

But if the previous evening with Peter had been a dream, then the events after the older man had left were the stuff of nightmares.

*************************************FLASHBACK**** **********************************

"You okay?" Stiles's dad called from down the hall. "Why is the kit down here?"

_Shit._

Stiles froze for a second before scooping portions of the casserole on to the plates, his wheels spinning at full tilt for an excuse.

"Ah, I kinda tripped over the ottoman. I wrapped up my foot with the bandage in it. Forgot to put it back, sorry," he shouted back, settling with a half-truth. At least now his dad wouldn't question his injury. It wouldn't be the first time Stiles had been laid out by the foot rest.

"If you tripped over the ottoman in the living room, then why is the kit down here and not in the bathroom where you had to get it from in the first place?" came the suspicious query from down the hall.

Leave it to his dad to spot the holes in his lies.

"Scott got it for me," Stiles called over his shoulder as he reached up into a cabinet for a pair of glasses. "He was here when it happened so he got it out for me."

"He the one who went out the back?"

Stiles nearly dropped the glass he was holding, his heart pounding in his chest. He mentally cursed the doorbell, putting 'superglue the cowbell clappers' on his to-do list.

"Uh, yeah. Actually, he wasn't even supposed to be here. He's kinda grounded. But he knew what today was so he snuck out to keep me company. He went out the back so you wouldn't see him and tell his mom."

Stiles dug an ice tray out of the freezer and dropped a few in each glass before taking them to the sink.

There was a tension-filled moment of silence as his dad weighed the excuse. Stiles crossed his fingers and waited with bated breath while he heard his father mess with something in the living room, likely going through today's mail. And possibly staring distantly at the old family pictures in the living room that held Stiles's mom's face, grief hitting him hard as he studied the features of the woman who had been forced to leave him behind too soon.

Probably both.

"That's fine," his dad said vaguely before thumping his way up the stairs.

Relief flooded through Stiles's battered body. What was it with all the close calls today?

He set the two ice water-filled glasses down on the table and looked around, jittery. Usually he left off dealing with the dirty dishes until after dinner, but tonight he was too keyed up to sit and do nothing. He needed to move, to expend the nervous energy that he had built up, and so he found himself arranging the dirty dishes methodically into the washing machine rack— a metaphorical twiddling his of thumbs.

Heavy, plodding steps heralded his father's descent from upstairs.

Stiles was busy adding the dish detergent when his dad walked into the kitchen behind him. "Place looks great, kid. What did you do, go over it with a comb?"

A chair scrapped across the linoleum as it was drawn away from the table, his dad settling into it a moment later. He leaned wearily against the table, but the plateful of hot food seemed to be cheering him up.

"Yeah, I got bored so I…did stuff," Stiles finished lamely. He started up the dishwasher and went to take his seat at the table, digging into his portion enthusiastically. All of this stress racked up one hell of an appetite.

Wrapped up in devouring his food, Stiles took no notice as his father's gaze narrowed at the dark, purpling bruises on his son's neck. "So Scott was here. Anyone else come over?" he asked, his tone lightly curious as he thoroughly chewed his mouthful.

"Naw, just Scott. Played video games for a while before he helped me start dinner. He opened all the cans without breaking the can opener this time. I was proud."

Stiles gulped down half of his glass of water, thinking that it really shouldn't be this easy for the lie to roll off of his tongue. The first time Scott had helped him cook after he'd been bitten, he and Stiles had gotten into a heated discussion over a mission in World of Warcraft and, well… Stiles had had to replace the can opener that had been sheared in half during Scott's animated speech.

His dad pushed his food around on his plate, playing with a green bean. "You didn't leave the house at all today?" he asked, his eyes noting little scoop-like marks in some of the bruises— teeth marks?

Shaking his head, Stiles spoke through a particularly large mouthful. 'Didn't f'l like it." He chewed a bit then swallowed roughly. "I'll go out tomorrow. We're almost out of milk. And Save-A-Lot is has ground turkey on sale so I'll probably swing by for some." His dad groaned. "And _no_, I'm _not_ grabbing any chips 'while I'm at it'. You don't need the extra sodium," Stiles said firmly, shutting down the idea before his father could bring it up for the thousandth time.

"You know, they make lightly salted chips."

Stiles just gave him a look and speared a bit of pasta with his fork.

His dad groaned somberly as he chewed. "Well, it was nice of Scott to come out today and keep you company."

A half-smile settled onto Stiles's face. "Yeah, he's awesome. He was gonna stalk Allison—not _actually_ stalk, dad—but he said he could put it off 'til tomorrow. The guy needed a break from all the 'girl drama' anyway."

They continued to eat in silence, apart from Stiles's occasional quizzing into his dad's work. When they finished, Stiles moved to clear the table, but his dad motioned for him to sit back down…which meant a talk.

Fuck.

"Look, Stiles," his dad began, shifting in his chair in discomfort. "It's perfectly fine to experiment. I understand. You're young and curious and you're trying to figure out what you like, but you're sixteen. You're still underage and, until such time that you _cease_ to be underage, you'll abide by my rules. There'll be no unnecessary nudity, obscene acts, or sex of any kind under my roof—especially when I'm gone. If I feel the need to have patrols or a neighbor swing by to check on you when I'm out, _I will do so_.

But personally, I think you need to keep your head clear right now. I know Scott's your best friend and you might feel comfortable experimenting with him, but if he's still stuck on Allison then things could get messy if he tries to play more than one field. I've got no problems with the guy; I just don't want to see you get hurt. I know that whole 'Lydia' thing didn't pan out for you, but don't let yourself be pressured into settling for just any Tom, Dick, or Harriet that will look at you twice. You've got a lot going for you, bud. Just make sure you don't waste it on someone who doesn't deserve it."

Stiles could only sit, mouth hanging wide open in silent horror while his dad churned out his speech. Mortified beyond belief, Stiles stammered out a 'thanks, dad' before excusing himself from the table.

His dad collected the dirty dishes with a sympathetic grimace.

As soon as he reached the safety of his room, Stiles finally remembered the bruises on his neck and the incriminating towels and soiled boxers in the bathroom—evidence his father had obviously seen and horrendously misinterpreted.

Not that Stiles had been about to correct him.

Mentally and physically exhausted, he rushed through his nighttime hygiene rituals, plugged in his phone, and passed the fuck out, asleep within seconds of falling into bed.

*************************************END FLASHBACK**********************************

Stiles squirmed on the bed, trying to get comfortable, but his back only seemed to ache worse. He'd seen the bruises in the bathroom mirror, black and blue stripes slanting across his back, and he wondered how hard hiding them in the locker room was going to be.

He stretched out on the bed, arms over his head to lengthen his body as much as possible. His muscles protested as they were pulled taut.

His dad had allowed him to sleep in until about noon before ousting him from his nice, warm blanket-cocoon. Unfortunately, Stiles's hopes for a lazy Sunday afternoon had been smashed to pieces when his dad had courteously reminded him of the lawn he'd been neglecting for the past two weeks. To be fair, there had been extenuating supernatural circumstances beyond his control, so it wasn't like it was _completely_ his fault. Sad as it was, that truth— like so many others— wasn't up for discussion. At least until Stiles couldn't hold it off any longer.

So, after completing his scheduled grocery shopping, Stiles had pushed their ancient mower around the yard for a good two hours, which was over half an hour longer that it _should_ have taken because he had checked his phone for messages after every. Freaking. Pass.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing from Peter since his initial text from the night before.

And that was fine, right? No big deal. He'd suffered through years of Lydia's rebuffs, one more time couldn't hurt.

Right?

And like hell if Stiles was going to make the first move again. It was _his_ damn turn to be chased.

A cool droplet of water—a vestige from his after-mowing shower— slowly trickled from his hairline down his cheek, tickling him. He rubbed his face against his pillow and its corner stuck out and pressed right up against the line of love bites decorating his throat.

Stiles inhaled sharply, his cock stirring at the sensation and the near-fresh memory of Peter rutting against him, marking him…

Mindlessly, Stiles rocked his hips against the comforter, closing his eyes as he imagined it was Peter he was rutting against as he settled into a lazy rhythm. He sighed softly. He felt drowsy as his undulating hips sent delicious shivers through his aching limbs. Lost in pleasure, Stiles didn't hear the faint scraping sound of his window being drawn open, nor did he notice the light breeze suddenly skimming across his still damp skin. He did, however, notice the dip in his mattress and he reacted instinctively, flailing about in blind panic as he rolled off the opposite side of the bed, landing on the floor shoulders first, squarely onto at least two rows of bruises.

Groaning, Stiles's vision momentarily fuzzed over as he lay on the floor, trying to catch his breath.

Peering at him from the other side of the bed was Peter, smirking from his half-knelt position. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he said, his voice cracking minutely with barely-restrained laughter.

Stiles huffed. _Yeah, right…_

Cautiously, Stiles rolled over and stood, wincing as the movement jostled his abused back.

Frowning, Peter made his way around the bed to Stiles. He gestured for him to turn and stared expectantly at the teen until Stiles obeyed with an eye roll.

As soon as his back was presented to Peter, the older man gently lifted his shirt to reveal the damage Scott's mini-meltdown had inflicted. He waited on tenterhooks for about half a minute before clearing his throat, his hands moving restlessly. Peter could look at his skin for as long as he wanted, but it would be really freaking nice if he actually touched it…

A soft growl make him freeze in his fidgeting, making him forget how awkward he felt standing with his shirt rucked up to his nipples.

"The next time I see Scott, we're going to have a nice long chat about anger management. This is unacceptable," Peter said tightly.

Before he could stifle it, an incredulous giggle sprang from Stiles's lips. Peter Hale, who had single-handedly murdered over half a dozen people, was pissed over a few bruises. Or maybe it was just because Scott was the one who put them there (that could be more worrying).

His shirt was gently dropped to cover the mottled bruising and he felt more than heard the older man step away from him. When Stiles turned, Peter was lounging in his computer chair, his ice-blue eyes regarding him shrewdly.

"You don't think I can control myself," Peter said neutrally. Once again, Stiles had the feeling that, while outwardly distant and unconcerned, Peter was consciously reigning in his stronger emotions.

Passing a hand through his hair, Stiles gusted out a breath, struggling to respond in a way that wouldn't offend the werewolf judging him from across the room. "It's not that I think you _can't_ exercise control," he hesitantly began, "so much that I know there have been times that you _haven't_." He cringed, hoping Peter wouldn't maim him.

Peter raised a brow, a malicious smirk playing around his lips, "Really, now? And what makes you think that each and every blood splatter wasn't of my own design?" he asked, his voice light and curious as he toyed with a button on his shirt sleeve (the shirt was a burgundy button-down that clashed with the color of his eyes, but perfectly matched the tone of their conversation).

Stiles's heart rate quickened as he tapped out a couple of Adderall from the pill bottle on his nightstand (he had a feeling he was going to need a clear head for this conversation). Peter had a valid point: Stiles had no idea what the older man's state of mind had been when, bit by bit, he had revenged himself upon his family's murderers— which was frightening because Stiles had voluntarily fooled around with a man who could kill him as easily as kiss him.

Peter was watching him with an expression of polite interest, as though he hadn't just asked Stiles's opinion on his murder spree.

Downing the pills with a healthy swig from his lacrosse water bottle, Stiles plopped onto the edge of the bed facing Peter, trying to will away the feeling of having a test sprung on him when he hadn't studied.

"I don't know," he finally said, twisting the bottle cap anxiously, loosening then tightening then loosening it again in quick spins. "I really don't know much of anything about you. Well, aside from whatever was in the Hale case file. And maybe some stuff Scott told me. And some things from the night of the Formal." He hunched over and rested his elbows on his thighs, flicking his thumb across the top of the water bottle cap. "Not much at all," he finished awkwardly.

For some reason, Peter kept staring at Stiles's hands, which kind of made him nervous so he kept restlessly playing with the water bottle.

Peter hummed softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth across his lips. "You know more than most."

Jerking his shoulder blades up in a shrug that made him wince, Stiles frowned, unhappy about his lack of real information on the werewolf in front of him. "Just some history and registered facts, data base stuff. Nothing that really matters. Not like, how you came back. I still don't know how you did that. How _did_ you do that?" Stiles asked, curiosity overriding his caution.

An unnatural stillness fell over Peter and Stiles wondered if he'd gone too far with the question. Peter stared at him steadily and his fidgeting worsened. Stiles dropped the older man's gaze, his mind full of ways to change the subject, but his throat too tight to voice them.

"I…enlisted help from someone," Peter offered, vaguely. Stiles's attention snapped back up excitedly. "They gathered some things for me in time for an old ritual and…here I am," he said, nonchalantly gesturing with his hand to himself.

_That's it?_

Stiles squeezed his water bottle tightly in frustration. "Yeah, but _how?_"

Peter raised a brow at him, mockingly. "You don't think it's only the Argents who have amassed knowledge over the centuries? Or secrets? We're all holding our cards close, waiting for the perfect time to play them— even Scott."

Disappointment chaffed at Stiles. He didn't like important information being withheld from him (and a ritual powerful enough to bring the dead back to life was worth knowing). "So you won't tell me?" he asked, trying for indifference and probably failing miserably.

Peter smiled mirthlessly and stood, slowly approaching the teen and invading his space.

Stiles kept his eyes on Peter, hoping it wasn't too obvious that he was taking in the older man's scent, trying to commit it to memory. Last night's encounter had been brief and Stiles had been too caught up in Peter's passion to concentrate on his scent for long. The light musk was intoxicating— and probably expensive: low grade-arousal with a hint of something like old books. If he knew himself at all, Stiles was going to find himself in every shop in town, searching for the bottle that matched the fragrance.

Head fuzzy from having Peter's heady scent around him, Stiles sat placidly as the older man cupped his chin and caressed his plump bottom lip with a clawed thumb.

Peter's eyes were unreadable as he considered the teen before him. "Well…you _did_ set me on fire not too long ago. It's only prudent I keep a few things to myself, don't you think?"

Shock jolted through Stiles, making him drop his water bottle onto the floor as he was caught off guard, his mind spinning into high gear. Did Peter blame him for his death, even though Derek had struck the final blow? Was all this just a ploy to get Stiles off his guard? His heart began to ratchet higher as he searched the older man's eyes, trying to read the intentions in the clear blue depths.

Peter leaned forward to place a tender kiss to Stiles's unresponsive lips, still lightly holding onto the teen's chin. When Peter retreated, his hand fell away to his side and he frowned, confused. "You're frightened. Why?"

Stiles swallowed roughly, having to clear his throat a few times before he was able to speak.

"I, um…is that why you're here?" he whispered. He was having trouble meeting Peter's eyes, afraid of being right.

Understanding softened Peter's rigid stance and he smiled with ironic amusement. "No. If I wanted to kill you, I'd have done it by now. Besides, you don't pose enough of a threat to warrant the use of seduction as an offensive tactic." He dove forward to nip playfully at Stiles's lips, cutting off the teen's indignant huff.

Reassured somewhat that Peter wasn't going to gut him mid-kiss, Stiles allowed himself to respond, pressing up and drawing Peter's tongue into his eager mouth. When Peter pulled away again, Stiles swayed on the bed, his body unconsciously trying to follow the older man's intoxicating kisses—until he remembered Peter's dig.

"Not a threat? What, did you forget I set you on fire once?" he quipped as he leaned back onto his elbows, putting himself on display. He had a pretty good idea of the picture he made—breathless and flushed with kiss-bruised lips— which seemed to work for Peter, if his hungry leer was any indication.

Wedging himself between Stiles's spayed legs, Peter leaned over the teen, hovering inches from his face. "Don't get me wrong, you're not _completely_ helpless. I just don't need to seduce you to get what I want."

"Yeah? So how _do_ you get it?" Stiles asked, his voice little more than a whisper. His gaze kept darting between Peter's soft lips and clear blue eyes, entranced.

Peter leaned closer so that his lips barely touched Stiles's when he answered.

"Wait."

His expression was completely guileless as he watched Stiles expectantly. It was like he was waiting for him to— oh.

Nuh-uh.

Stiles might be a hair away from jumping Peter's bones, but that didn't mean he was going to do it just because Peter _expected_ him to, like a well-trained labra-doodle. If they were going to play this game, then it was going to be played fair—after all, it was Peter's damn turn to take the lead.

Stiles leaned closer, rubbing his nose slightly against Peter's. "Really?" he asked, dropping his voice to a seductive rasp.

Peter hummed vaguely, looking dazed.

Stiles nudged his nose down Peter's cheek, brushing it across his jawline and down his throat. Obligingly, Peter tilted his head, giving him access. Stiles smiled in triumph as he trailed soft kisses over Peter's heated skin.

_Expect this_, he thought.

Picking a spot about halfway down, he struck, opening his mouth wide and clamping his teeth down on Peter's flesh.

Peter reacted instantly. Fisting a hand in Stiles's hair, he yanked the teen off with a snarl before tossing him backwards onto the bed, following a split second after to pin him down onto the mattress. His eyes flashed as he ground his crotch against Stiles's, sucking punishingly at the teen's neck.

Stiles tossed his head back against the mattress, groaning. His legs were obscenely spread in order to accommodate Peter's bulk, but when the older man dropped nearly his entire weight onto him, Stiles's groan turned into one of pain. The combined pressure of both their weights was setting his back on fire, the lines of bruises protesting the rough treatment. His face scrunched up as he tried to ignore the ache that threatened to eclipse the bliss from having Peter on top of him.

The supernatural glow in Peter's eyes faded as the older man levered himself up off of the teen, looking down at him with concern.

Stiles's pain-induced daze retreated and he pouted at Peter, disappointed. "Why'd you stop?"

Not even their groins were touching anymore. What the fuck?

Peter raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Because you're hurt," he said, overemphasizing it as though Stiles was being slow.

Stiles huffed at him. "Well, yeah. Not much I can really do about that, y'know? We humans have to wait out the whole healing process. You still didn't have to," he gestured haphazardly between their separated torsos, "stop. I mean, come on," he cajoled, incredibly aware that he was getting closer and closer to begging Peter to continue, despite his initial balk at outright seducing the older man.

His teenage libido wasn't entirely to blame. Part of his growing desperation was fueled by the exciting prospect of fooling around on an actual _bed_. Thrilling as outdoor sex was, it was still uncomfortable to _literally_ be between a rock and Peter's 'hard place'.

Peter quietly surveyed Stiles from his half-plank position, his nose twitching minutely. Was that….was Peter scenting his arousal?

The lust from that realization swept through Stiles and raised goose bumps on his arms.

A smirk flitted across Peter's face. In a quick display of werewolf strength that left Stiles breathless and Peter smug, the older man flipped their positions without warning so that Stiles lay sprawled on top of him.

Well, _that_ certainly took the pressure off of his back.

Feeling out of place, Stiles cautiously sat up, his knees bracketing Peter's hips as he perched in the man's lap. It was kind of like sitting on a seesaw, except none of the seesaws he could remember had ever sported erections. He wiggled a bit, trying to get used to being astride someone, when Peter hissed, clamping his hands around Stiles's thighs to still him.

"Stop moving," Peter growled out through clenched teeth.

Stiles took in the light flush on Peter's face and the way the older man's torso moved with his soft panting. Stiles's lips stretched into what his father called a shit-eating grin as he slowly rolled his hips against Peter's. "Are you sure? 'Cause it doesn't _feel_ like you want me to stop," he drawled out, enjoying the hard press of the older man's cock against his own.

Peter hissed in a breath and squeezed Stiles's thighs in warning, barely digging his claws into the teen's jeans.

Feeling more than a little cocky from bringing the wolf out of Peter, Stiles kept rocking his hips, shamelessly rubbing their hard-ons together.

Peter's eyes flashed. "You don't know what you're doing."

Stiles stopped moving, doubt creeping in and souring his playful mood. "I've got a pretty good idea."

Peter hummed noncommittally as he folded his hands behind his head. Then show me," he purred.

_Show me? Sure, no problem,_ Stiles thought nervously as toyed with the hem of his shirt. He'd taken his clothes off in front of other guys in the locker room. If he could do it under Jackson's disdainful watch, then he could bare himself to Peter's lascivious gaze.

Hurriedly, Stiles whipped off his t-shirt to avoid the embarrassment of screwing up a strip tease (words couldn't describe how proud he was for not getting it caught around his ears). But then he was left half-naked and straddling an aroused werewolf, holding his wadded up shirt in his lap.

Peter didn't seem to notice his self-consciousness. Well...he didn't seem to be paying much attention to anything beyond the lean cut of Stiles's exposed torso.

A deep flush spread across Stiles's cheeks and neck as the older man's appreciative gaze wandered over him. Emboldened, he cast his shirt to the floor and popped open the button on his jeans, drawing down the zipper extra slow.

Peter smirked at the tease and watched expectantly.

Problem was, taking off your pants was rather complicated when you were on top of someone, so Stiles sat clutching at his jeans as he silently floundered, trying to figure out the least ridiculous way to get them off without having to fully dismount.

After a few seconds, Peter had mercy on him and took the decision out of his hands. He reached up and dragged Stiles down by the back of his neck for a slow, sultry kiss.

Stiles melted against the older man and sank down until the buttons of Peter's shirt pressed into his skin. Unconsciously, he began rocking his hips again. He was getting spoiled. At this rate, rubbing against the mattress would never satisfy him again. Peter was warm and solid, and his body provided just enough friction to make Stiles whimper into Peter's mouth.

Gripping the jut of Stiles's hipbone, Peter rolled his hips up against the squirming teen on top of him.

Stiles breathed unevenly through his nose, needing more air but stubbornly refusing to stop kissing Peter. Lost in desire, he didn't notice that the other man's hand had moved away from his neck until he felt it tugging at his boxers, pulling them down and—

Choking on a gasp, Stiles finally pulled away to confirm that, yes, that _was_ Peter's hand around him, stroking and squeezing and wringing out the most pitiful sounds he had ever heard himself make.

Stiles bit his lip, trying to stifle the embarrassing noises, but Peter gently coaxed the abused flesh out from between Stiles's teeth with his thumb. "I want to hear you," the older man breathed, his voice low and husky. His eyes burned electric blue in the fading light of Stiles's room and Stiles stared down into them, transfixed.

Forgetting his self-consciousness, Stiles bucked up into Peter's grip, no longer holding back the stream of swear words and moans as he instinctively sought his own pleasure. Peter kept his hand in a tight ring, twisting and stroking as Stiles thrust with reckless abandon, getting closer and _closer_…

Stiles knew that, later, he would cringe at how fast he came, but the feel of having a hand other than his own on his cock all but threw him over the brink, magnified by the desire burning in Peter's eyes. The heady newness of it all hit him hard and, in less than a minute from when Peter wrapped his hand around him, Stiles's climax overtook him and he could do little more than whine and fist the covers as Peter stroked him through his shudders.

His arms gave out and he slouched forward onto Peter's chest, shaking as he struggled to get his breathing back under control. He didn't care that he was lying in the come splattered on Peter's shirt—Stiles absently thought the mess was obscenely beautiful, the opaque wet smears soaking into the burgundy material.

Peter was running his hands all over Stiles, soothing away the last of his trembling. The supernatural glow had left his eyes, but his erection hadn't flagged one bit. Hot and hard, it pressed insistently into Stiles's stomach every time he breathed.

Stiles felt dazed. He half expected to wake up and find that he had rutted himself to completion against his own sheets. Shit like this didn't happen to him. Gorgeous older werewolves didn't climb in through his window and take it upon themselves to bring Stiles off (well, okay, they _did_, but usually things stopped just short of the orgasm part).

Everything felt surreal, so he was grateful that Peter was still petting him. The light touches were grounding him—and lulling him into a post-orgasm nap.

Just as Stiles's eyelids began to droop, Peter gently cupped the side of his face, his thumb brushing back and forth across his cheekbone.

"Now don't quit on me just yet, Stiles," Peter softly implored. He skimmed his thumb down to rub at the teen's plump lower lip and gave a slight buck of his hips.

_Oh_.

Stiles flushed, embarrassed. He had almost forgotten that Peter hadn't gotten off yet. Fuck, twenty-four hours into his sex life and he was already making a bad impression. Nothing says 'bad lover' like neglecting your partner.

The tip of Peter's thumb nudged between his lips and, without thinking, Stiles licked the digit. He could have sworn the older man's eyes had flashed again for a split second, but he wrote it off as a reflection of the street light.

Stiles felt heat coil in his groin. He wasn't stupid. He knew what Peter wanted (and he'd watched enough porn to have a pretty good idea of how to go about it), but… None of his knowledge was first-hand, despite his occasional attempts at fellating bananas (it wasn't like he owned an _actual _dildo); he never managed to do more than suck them into mush.

Still…

The thought of going down on someone—on _Peter_—was making his cock twitch in anticipation of Round Two.

Eagerly, Stiles shimmied his way down Peter's body (ignoring how his dick still hung out in the open) and knelt between the man's obligingly spread legs. Tentatively, he undid the button on Peter's jeans and unzipped the fly. Plain black boxers covered the thick bulge of Peter's engorged cock.

A shift in the mattress drew his attention up to where Peter was crossing his arms behind his head again. He was watching Stiles with heavy-lidded eyes, waiting.

_Fuck_, Stiles thought as his gaze wandered over the man.

With his slightly mussed hair and rumpled, come-covered shirt, Peter looked downright debauched. A real-life wet dream all for Stiles. Stiles felt his cock begin to harden as he leaned over the bulge of Peter's boxers. Without breaking eye contact, he pressed his lips to it in a chaste kiss.

Peter smirked.

_Let's see how funny _this_ is_, Stiles thought as he mouthed at the hard length through the black cotton, lightly sucking. He lavished attention up and down the shaft before finally moving up to take tip into his mouth, soaking the material.

He glanced up.

Peter wasn't smirking anymore. In its place was an intense look of concentration, his eyes fixed on Stiles's face. Feeling smug, Stiles gripped Peter's shaft and stroked as he sucked, the friction from the boxers making his hand warm.

"Tease," the older man breathed at him.

_Oh, yeah?_

Stiles spread his knees further apart for more stability and comfort, supporting his upper body with a hand on the bed.

_Time to level up_, his mind unhelpfully supplied as he released Peter to pull the sodden boxers down, tucking the band down to rest under the base of the man's cock. Peter sprang free, the tip nearly lying against his belly.

His cock was beautifully curved, heavy and flushed. Last night in the falling dusk (and with Peter's hand moving around it), it had been difficult for Stiles to see it in sharp detail. Here, up close with the stark street light illuminating his room, he could see that Peter was uncut. Stiles was fascinated. Most of the porn he watched featured circumcised men. Circumcision was such a common procedure that he had never really given sex with an 'uncut' man any thought.

It wasn't like foreskin was completely foreign to him. In fact, he had done extensive research on the penis in one of his ADHD moments and couldn't concentrate on his homework (he had later used the results in one of Coach Finstock's essay questions).

But he'd never _touched_ one before.

Curious, Stiles gently wrapped his hand around the base of Peter's cock and experimentally stroked up and down, gauging the stretch of the foreskin.

It was…different. There was more 'give' compared to what Stiles normally felt when he jacked off and so he indulged himself, stroking and twisting Peter's foreskin, fascinated by how it stretched and contorted to his whims. He tugged it up to entirely cover Peter's crown before pulling it back down as far as he could, making bunch at the base to fully expose the shaft. A bead of precome welled up at the tip of Peter's cock and wiggled there with Stiles's explorations.

Peter took a deep breath and released it slowly through his nose, like he was forcing himself to lie passively under Stiles's hands.

Only, Stiles didn't want Peter controlling himself. He wanted to rile the older man, to push him to his limits and see what he would do.

It was probably one of the most reckless of Stiles's desires—provoking a werewolf— but it was the only clear driving thought in his head as he fisted the base of Peter's cock, licked off the welling of precome, and took as much of the shaft as he could fit into his mouth.

He felt more than heard the older man groan, but Stiles's attention quickly narrowed down to the cock in his mouth. He had often wondered what dick would taste like and the first thing that came to mind now was skin. Clean skin. As though Peter had showered before swinging by. Maybe he had cleaned up in anticipation of the sort of thing…?

The thought of Peter intentionally preparing for a blowjob made heat flare low in Stiles's belly. That was…way more of a turn-on than it should be.

Careful to keep his teeth covered with his lips, Stiles bobbed his head up and down, flicking his tongue against the shaft as he sucked, trying to make it look like he knew what he was doing. All of his time watching porn must have paid off because Peter hummed approvingly. So either Stiles was doing a good job or he wasn't fucking it up enough to make Peter correct his technique.

Stiles nearly choked when a hand threaded through his hair, surprising him.

Mouth full, he looked up. He stomach did a happy sort of 'flip' when Peter's eyes blazed back at him. The older man kept petting him, dragging blunt fingernails over his scalp, setting off goose bumps. He directed Stiles into a slightly faster rhythm with gentle tugs on his hair.

Stiles groaned when the tip of Peter's cock nudged against the back of his throat.

Fuck, that was…Stiles didn't really know _what_ that was. All he knew was that it made him feel _full_, made him _want_.

Peter pushed his head down a little harder, making him take even more, and Stiles choked around him. Eyes watering, Stiles pulled away, rubbing at his throat.

In an instant, Peter sat up and held Stiles's face in his hands, brushing away his tear tracks and whispering apologies. Earnest as the older man was, Stiles wasn't upset about the momentary roughness. In fact…

"Could you do that again?" Stiles whispered hoarsely, horribly aware of the watery-eyed, flushed mess he probably looked. His mortification that he had gagged was being drowned by the fear that Peter would stop. Stiles didn't _want_ him to stop so he waited, pleading with his eyes, while the older man cocked his head.

Peter's expression was wary and unsure. "…be rough with you?" he asked, trying to confirm the teen's request.

Stiles ducked his head nervously and fidgeted. He was half-naked, aroused, and slightly ashamed. He knew it wasn't quite _normal_ to want to gag on someone's dick, but he also couldn't forget or ignore the heady rush he had felt when Peter's cock had pressed just a little too far, pushing Stiles's own limits.

Peter studied him intently for a few seconds then released Stiles's face, easing back to his prone position on the bed.

Heart skipping quickly in his chest, Stiles steadied himself with a deep calming breath, hoping that he wouldn't end up looking like a fool. He wanted this but, he knew that you don't always get what you want. He was kind of worried about what he _would_ get…

As he leaned over the older man's hips again, he absently wondered—if this was one of _Stiles's_ kinks, then what kind of kinks did _Peter_ have? He repressed a snort. It would be just his luck if Peter was into watersports or watching donkey shows or something equally extreme. Did sex with a werewolf count as bestiality?

Stiles wrapped his hand around Peter's cock again, pumping it lazily as his mind wandered.

An image of Peter, wolfed out and holding him down as he fucked Stiles with abandon, flashed through his mind.

Stiles inhaled sharply and accidentally squeezed Peter's shaft a little tighter than he meant, momentarily overcome by arousal. If it _did_ count, Stiles didn't think he'd care too much.

Peter cupped the back of his head and guided his lips to the head of his spit-slicked cock, effectively scattering Stiles's errant thoughts and slamming him back into the present. Obediently, Stiles dropped his jaw wide and the thick length slid in to prod at the back of his throat again (only Stiles was prepared for it this time). He let Peter control the pace, the older man's hand a firm pressure at the nape of his neck, tugging him up then pushing him back down, then pulling back up…

Stiles gagged a few more times and had to pull away with each to catch his breath, but eventually he could predict when his gag reflex would be set off and how to breath to avoid it (he _had_ read tips on the internet, but actually implementing that theoretical knowledge was tricky, apparently). As his gagging fits tapered off, his confidence grew and soon he was bobbing and sucking faster. The feel of Peter's hard dick sliding in and out of his mouth was massively turning him on, so much more now that he could concentrate on the sensations rushing through him rather than on his technique.

But his neck was starting to twinge from his movements and his shoulders felt strained from bracing his own weight.

Then an idea hit him. He had seen it done in porn and, granted, the stars were normally vertical, but it might just work…

Stiles stopped and peered up at Peter with just the tip of the man's dick still engulfed by his mouth.

Peter's eyes were dark from his lust-blown pupils, but some sharpness bled back into his blue eyes when he realized that the teen was no longer moving on him. Brows drawn, Peter rubbed at Stiles's neck encouragingly. "What's wrong?"

Stiles shifted his arms around to grip Peter's hips and tugged them upward, trying to express what he wanted without having to take his mouth off of Peter. Thankfully, he didn't seem to need a detailed explanation, judging by the blazing eyes and elongated fangs. Peter's control was slipping.

Peter slowly rolled his hips up, watching raptly as he fed his cock into Stiles's mouth, then easing it out, then back in...

Stiles did his best to keep his head still and his teeth covered. He wanted to make it feel as good as possible for the older man, but he was starting to lose himself in Peter's movements, his eyes drifting halfway shut. He felt kind of high, like the only thing that mattered was the smooth, slick slide of Peter's hard cock between his lips.

_"Shit,"_ Peter whispered, thumbing the hollow of Stiles's cheek created by the teen's gentle suction. He thrust faster, groaning as he bucked up into the wet heat surrounding him. Peter slid his hand up from Stiles's neck to grip the teen's spikey hair. His rhythm faltered as his thrusts became rough and shallow. He tugged at Stiles's hair, trying to pull him off, but Stiles resisted, staring determinedly at Peter as he sucked harder. "Stiles, _fuck_," Peter groaned as he jerked on the bed. His muscles were visibly straining as he tried to keep from thrusting wildly into the teen's mouth.

Stiles watched avidly as tremors wracked the older man's body. _I did that, _he thought, amazed by the change he had wrought in the (normally) collected man. Pride flowed through him as he drank in every twitch and gasp that he had caused.

He was so wrapped up in Peter's orgasm that the first hot spurt of come into his mouth caught him by surprise.

Stiles's own neglected cock throbbed as he swallowed down everything Peter gave him. Gently, Stiles lapped at Peter's spent cock, mindful of the sensitive flesh as he cleaned off stray drops.

_Fuck_, he thought, as Peter's throaty groans turned to soft sighs of contentment. This put at least 90% of his fantasies to shame.

Peter smirked lazily at Stiles's unabashed wide-eyed staring. He hooked a finger through one of Stiles's belt loops and pulled until the teen was sprawled onto the bed beside him.

Stiles's cock was pressed to Peter's hip and he couldn't stop himself from rubbing against it, leaving smears of precome on the older man's jeans. Before Stiles could say something embarrassing (like 'so, how was it?'), his breath exploded out of his chest with a helpless cry. Peter had grasped his cock and was jacking it hard and fast and it was so fucking _dirty_ that Stiles could only bury his head in the coverlet and fuck Peter's hand. Stiles fisted Peter's ruined shirt and held on like it was his life line.

"Come on, Stiles. Come for me," Peter coaxed. His ravenous gaze was fixed on Stiles's face, blue eyes burning bright—burning straight into _Stiles_— and it was too much, Stiles couldn't—

With a pitiful whine, Stiles shot strand after strand of hot come all over Peter's shirt again, splashing over the drying patches he had left earlier.

Peter kept stroking him until Stiles squirmed, sensitivity making the older man's touch uncomfortable.

Feeling thoroughly wrung out, Stiles lay boneless on the bed. His arm was still half-draped over Peter (if the older man minded, he certainly wasn't protesting). "Fuck", Stiles sighed. His throat, jaw, and back all ached and though Stiles knew he'd probably feel ten times worse in the morning, he couldn't wipe the goofy grin off of his face.

That was a _lot_ better than masturbation. That was…that was _sex_.

Maybe next time they could try that with Peter standing up? Or maybe something else? Lord knows there were oodles of positions and things Stiles was itching to try and—

Stiles's thoughts were interrupted as his arm was jostled.

He popped his head up long enough to see Peter tuck himself back into his boxers and zip up his fly. Not wanting to be the only guy with his junk hanging out, Stiles moved to do the same, but only got as far as shoving his softening dick into his shorts before lethargy overtook him. His arm flopped back on top of Peter (who grunted at the impact), unmotivated to try to further clothe himself.

If he wasn't so freaking tired, Stiles would be angry by how fast he was falling asleep, but he was only human. He wasn't built to do a few hours of hard labor, come twice, and still keep on going (he wasn't the werewolf here).

Peter turned onto his side facing Stiles and pulled the teen closer, making him curl around the older man.

Stiles, in his sleepy state, allowed the manhandling. Besides, it felt nice to be pressed against Peter's chest, his face nestled in the warm hollow of the older man's throat. "Are we cuddling?" he slurred, sleep creeping in on him.

"Hm, I suppose you could call it that. I prefer to think of it as a post-sex extended hug," Peter mumbled into Stiles's hair.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude…You gonna stay a while?" He hoped to God that Peter wasn't expecting him to run a marathon tonight. Sexathon? Everything was blurring together and Stiles just flat out didn't know anymore.

Peter chuckled softly. "Well, _someone_ has to look after you."

Confusion flitted through Stiles. "Dude, the kanima thing is over and the Argents have backed off. What else is there to worry about?"

Tucked under Peter's chin, Stiles didn't see the older man's face crease with apprehension. But even Peter's silence went unnoticed because Stiles passed out after the question fell from his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles set his lunch tray on the cafeteria table with a clatter before plopping down on the bench seat opposite Scott. Just as he was about to dig into his sloppy joe, he saw the scrunched-up expression on Scott's face and he paused, the sandwich halfway to his mouth.

"What?"

Scott hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. Stiles motioned with his sandwich for him to continue. "Can we switch spots?"

Stiles blinked at his friend, confused. "Like, right now? Why?"

"Um." Scott fidgeted, twiddling his fork. "You're kind of sitting in front of the stream from the air conditioning vent."

Raising a suspicious eyebrow at the request, Stiles tore into his sandwich, wondering what the big deal was. They always sat here. Why Scott had a problem with it now had him puzzled.

Scott hunched forward over his tray, looking for all the world like Stiles was dragging the issue out by force. "You kind of reek."

Throwing his arms up indignantly, Stiles protested through a mouthful of sloppy joe. "There's no way! I showered twice as long this morning to make sure."

Granted, only part of his lengthy shower was to scrub off Peter's lingering scent. The rest had been devoted to jerking himself stupid while imagining that it was Peter's hand on him instead of his own. Stiles had slept undisturbed through the whole night and had woken to find himself half naked and alone. And that was fine, less awkwardness all around, but Stiles couldn't help wondering how it would feel to wake up with someone else beside him for a change.

Pushing his unhelpful musings to the back of his mind, Stiles chewed moodily. There was no way he could still smell like Peter. He had soaped down two or three times to make sure every trace of the older man was gone. And his clothes were clean. The only piece of clothing on him that wasn't "fresh" fresh was his jeans. He had re-worn them because he had only been wearing them since after his shower late last night, but—oh.

Oh…

Oops.

Stiles cringed at the realization that he was wearing the jeans that he had straddled Peter in, that he had been wearing when Peter had twice jerked him off, jeans that he had slept in while cuddling with Peter (yes, _cuddling_, Stiles wasn't afraid to call it what it was).

Guess they weren't as _clean_ as he had thought.

"I don't care how long your shower was," Scott groused. "You still smell like you _rolled_ in Peter's scent…and other things…"

Stiles ducked his head. He had the good grace to feel ashamed by his oversight. "You're not _wrong_," he muttered down at his tray. Scott groaned through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Stiles snorted at the irony of the situation. "Oh, sure, intimate details about you and Allison's sex life are peaches and cream, but the slightest suggestion of Peter and I getting hot and heavy together is TMI."

Shrugging, Scott played with his food. "Most of it is because I can _smell_ it. I dunno. But _it_ is weird to think of you like that."

"Like what?" Stiles prompted thorough another mouthful of his sandwich.

Scott dropped his gaze to his plate and shrugged again. "I don't know. Involved? Sexually? Performing…acts and things…with _Peter_…" He trailed off, looking queasy.

"What, are you saying I'm hideous? You are, aren't you? I'm the ugly duck in the picture and it's grossing you out."

Scott's eyes went wide in dismay. "No! You look…you look alright for a dude, y'know? I mean, you're not _my_ type, but you're not…half bad," Scott quickly assured him, though his discomfort showed at having to weigh in on his best friend's attractiveness.

"Hey, you could do a lot worse than Stiles," Stiles said, pretending to be miffed by his friend's disinterest.

"Oh yeah, like who?" Scott countered as he made a mess of his mashed potato pile.

"Greenburg," Stiles said, like it was obvious. Scott shook his head in amazement and picked at his food.

Stiles was halfway through his sandwich when Scott tossed down his fork and dropped his head into his hands. "Why couldn't it have been _Derek?_" Scott moaned, sounding as though his life was falling apart.

Stiles smirked, the sadistic part of himself finding Scott's dismay kind of hilarious. "Early bird catches the worm," he quipped. Scott looked up at him, his mouth hung open in stunned horror. "Kidding, jeez…but, yeah. Totally do-able," Stiles admitted. Because yeah, Derek was hot in a tall, dark, brooding way that a lot of people swooned for, and Stiles may or may not have entertained a fantasy or two involving the Alpha (especially when he needed that extra edge to get himself off). It wasn't _Stiles's_ fault that Derek looked like angry sex walking…

But the Alpha had never offered. Then again, neither had Peter, really, before Stiles had jumped his bones in the preserve. Maybe the Hale men were passive when it came to approaching someone sexually?

A lunch tray setting down on the table broke his thought pattern.

"I'm sure Derek will be sorry that he lost out to his own uncle," Isaac said as he sat down beside Stiles, a smirk on his face.

"What, like he was interested before—hold on a second," Stiles turning his attention back to Scott when Isaac's words sank in. "You _tattled_ on me to _Derek?_"

Scott shrugged and hunched in on himself defensively. "Derek's his Alpha, he should know what his betas are doing."

"I think you mean _who_ he's doing." Stiles countered, offended by his best friend's betrayal. "You wouldn't have gone to Derek if he was putting the moves on someone older, like your mom." Scott's eyes flashed warningly at him. "Okay, not your mom, but you know what I mean."

Scott fell silent and scooped up his fork, using it to moodily push his food around on his plate.

"So you're really boning the zombie?" Isaac asked. "That's…interesting…considering what Derek had to say about him. And, no offense, but even if Scott _hadn't_ ratted on you, we still would have known. When he came back this morning, he _reeked_ of you. Tell me," Isaac's hand suddenly latched around Stiles's thigh, "have you always been such a slut or is it just for werewolves?"

Scott growled threateningly from across the table, but Isaac didn't so much as twitch as he remained deep inside Stiles's personal bubble, his hot breath dancing across the side of Stiles's face.

Stiles sat frozen, his eyes trained in his lunch tray, but mentally he was flailing. He was shocked by Isaac's sudden advance, unsure if it was genuine or a sick power play, but, either way, Stiles didn't feel like playing this game. His heart pounded hard in his chest—from fear, not desire—and the awareness of just how helpless he was drove him to the edge of recklessness. "Sorry," he said, finally turning his head slightly to look Isaac in the eye, shoring up his anxiety behind a thick layer of bravado and anger. "I prefer _born_ over _bitten_. You know, more _control_," Stiles said pointedly as he felt claws digging into his thigh.

"You like control? Or being controlled? Because, to be honest, you kinda look like you'd _enjoy_ being somebody's bitch," Isaac whispered dangerously, his eyes flashing yellow briefly as his clawed hand slid higher up Stiles's thigh.

"I don't kiss and tell," Stiles retorted dismissively, returning his attention to his tray. He was hyperactively aware of the threat mere inches from him and he was doing his best to ignore his steadily mounting panic. Regardless of how pretty Isaac was, the werewolf's aggressive attention deeply unsettled him (and the claws hadn't helped either). But even on the off-chance that Isaac _was_ actually interested in more than freaking him out, Stiles wasn't about to whore himself out to another werewolf. Or anyone else, for that matter.

If his eight-year infatuation with Lydia Martin had taught him anything, it was that Stiles was monogamous to a fault.

_"Isaac,"_ Scott hissed angrily. Scott had enough control over himself to prevent a full shift in the middle of the cafeteria, but his clawed hands threatened to dig into the surface of the table.

With a cocky smile, Isaac released Stiles's leg and leaned away. "No problem," he said smoothly. "Just a little teasing. It's all in good fun."

Stiles scoffed under his breath. Fun. Right.

Scott seemed to accept Isaac's backing off and he calmed down, retracting his claws.

The tension gradually dissipated as they all fell quiet, plodding through their lunches—until the subject of Erica and Boyd was broached.

"Any word on the others?" Scott asked softly.

Isaac stiffened, apparently caught off guard by the change in subject. "No, we haven't heard anything. Not that I expected to. They wanted to leave and they left. Didn't really think that stopping Jackson would bring them back. Derek, on the other hand, he still has hope. He has us out searching the woods every day."

"I thought they'd be back by now," Scott admitted as he bit into his sandwich. "I mean, Gerard and the kanima have been taken down. What else is there to keep them away?"

"The rest of the Argents?" Stiles helpfully supplied while Isaac only shrugged.

Stiles thought Isaac looked almost uneasy and was about to ask him about it when two familiar people walking into the cafeteria caught his eye: Allison and Lydia. Scott noticed their entrance too (well, at least _Allison's_) and he hurriedly engaged Isaac in a discussion over the make-up chemistry assignments Harris had given them— an obvious attempt to distract himself from his ex-girlfriend.

Stiles tuned them out as he tracked the two girls, watching as they sat at a table on the far side of the cafeteria, eating and talking and keeping to themselves. They looked normal, as though Allison hadn't tried to decimate the Hale pack with her manipulative grandfather, as though Lydia hadn't faced her kanima-turned-werewolf ex-boyfriend (who had skipped town a day or two later, the jerk). To see them acting as though nothing had happened disturbed Stiles more than having a hostile werewolf in his face.

Stiles wondered what that said about himself.

He stared at them—stared at Lydia—and found himself in awe of the lack of squirmy-fuzzy feelings in his stomach at the sight of her. He still thought she was attractive and amazing, but the shortness of breath and tension low in his belly that he was used to feeling when she was near him wasn't there. Not for her, anyways, not for the past couple of weeks. But it was there for Peter last night when the older man had unexpectedly shown up in his bedroom and, for the life of him, Stiles didn't know what to do with that information. Part of him was a little freaked out by the possibility that he may have already transferred his obsession from Lydia to Peter.

Stiles just hoped that his dick wasn't calling the shots on this one.

". . . Peter?"

"Wha—?" Stiles whipped his head back to Scott, his attention snagged by the mention of his lover.

"I was asking Isaac what it's like living with Derek and Peter," Scott patiently explained.

Isaac shrugged, looking bored. "It's alright. I see more of Derek than I do of Peter though. Peter comes and goes when he wants. Sometimes he doesn't come back to the station at all. I can't tell whether Derek likes it better when Peter's there where he can keep an eye on him or when Peter's out somewhere else. Probably both, knowing Derek."

"I know which I'd prefer," Scott muttered darkly.

Stiles didn't even bother to rebuke his friend. A lot of the problems Scott was currently faced with stemmed indirectly from being bitten by Peter that night in the woods. As much as Stiles empathized with Peter, facts were facts: this year would have gone much differently had Scott never been turned. Or if _Stiles_ had been turned instead (though Stiles tried not to let his mind ponder that "what if" scenario too often—there were only so many unhealthy thoughts he felt comfortable having at any given time).

"What I'd like to know," Isaac said, keeping his voice low to prevent being unheard, "is how he's back. You guys helped kill him a few months ago, right?"

Scott nodded and stopped playing with a leftover lump of potato. "We burned him and Derek slashed his throat. Stiles threw the Molotov cocktail that set him on fire," he said, pointing at Stiles with his fork.

"Really?" Isaac eyed him appraisingly and it almost made Stiles's skin crawl.

Stiles was uncomfortable with being put on the spot (admitting that you helped kill your current lover was awkward, okay?). He only just managed to keep from squirming guiltily on the bench. "Any ideas as to how he came back?" Stiles asked, half to deflect Isaac's attention and half in the hopes of getting an actual answer.

Isaac looked at Scott expectantly, but Scott shook his head. "I don't have a clue. Me and Isaac—""Isaac and I," Stiles corrected. Scott rolled his eyes exasperatedly at him. "Fine, _Isaac and_ _I_ found out at the same time."

"And Derek hasn't really said anything else about it. If he was actively ignoring Peter, I'd say he was pretending it didn't happen," Isaac said. "But…I don't know. Either he doesn't want anyone to know the details or he hasn't felt like sharing them."

"Maybe he doesn't know," Stiles chipped in through his mouthful of sloppy joe.

"Nah," Isaac immediately dismissed. "Derek usually knows more than he lets on. He probably thinks it's more of a 'we don't need to know' thing. I can see why he might not want to share, though. Knowing how to come back from the dead? Who wouldn't want that kind of information?"

"You think it's only a werewolf thing?" Scott asked vaguely as he openly stared at Allison with a hangdog expression on his face.

"Probably, considering it involves massive and sudden tissue regeneration," Isaac said as he picked at his own food.

"Maybe he had help," Stiles threw out carelessly. He was disappointed that the others were as clueless as he was and he felt his attention begin to drift back towards Allison and Lydia.

Scott snorted derisively. "Who would willingly help _Peter?_"

Stiles paused in thought with his fork halfway to his mouth, the question having triggered something inside his head.

Who _would_ help Peter come back from the dead? The Argents had vast knowledge on different creatures (and who knew what other kinds of supernatural tidbits they had), but reviving a rabid werewolf contradicted their whole raison d'être. Most people thought that Peter Hale was just a coma victim had mysteriously disappeared, or had been kidnapped from his room at the hospital. Everyone who knew the truth had essentially _wanted _him dead (or stopped at the very least).

Well, that was a technicality, considering Lydia Martin never knew the truth behind the 'animal' attack on her at Formal.

Stiles stared across the room at the girls as he mentally ticked off names of people who knew about werewolves (that _he_ knew of).

Isaac, Erica, and Boyd: no.

Scott: NO.

Deaton: no.

The Argents: no.

Jackson: _no_—

Stiles frowned. Jackson was still the kanima at the time that Peter had come back from the dead and under Matt's control— and Matt couldn't have done it because he hadn't known anything about Peter in the first place. Stiles seriously doubted that the kanima could serve two masters at once and Jackson himself definitely wouldn't have known how to do it. He wasn't smart enough to figure out something as thorny as raising the dead. His ex-girlfriend, on the other hand, could probably wrap her brain around an answer if she gave the problem the time of day, but—

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat as a radical thought struck him.

Lydia had been marked by the supernatural, had been bitten by an Alpha and proven immune to the change. But what if she was only _physically_ immune? What if, like Jackson, she was still _mentally_ susceptible to supernatural influence, to supernatural control?— to _Peter's_ control, through the bite that failed to turn or kill her yet had irrefutably left his mark on her.

Stiles felt his stomach turn and he broke into a cold sweat.

It was Lydia.

She helped Peter come back from the dead. She was the only one close enough to all the werewolf drama who could potentially be involved. She had behaved abnormally for weeks and displayed occasional mental instability—_as though someone else was pulling her strings_. And she had thrown a party with a drugged punch that had incapacitated anyone who might have gotten in the way of Peter's resurrection that night.

Now that he saw all the pieces for what they were, it was painfully obvious: Lydia Martin, Stiles's longtime obsession, had been driven nearly insane and used like a puppet by the man who had nearly killed her.

By the man Stiles had let his guard down to.

Feeling sick, Stiles grabbed his backpack and made his way out of the cafeteria, brushing off Scott and Isaac's questions with a faint "I don't feel well".

And there was no blip in his heart rate because it was true.

He wasn't feeling well at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Despite carefully keeping to his Adderall schedule, Stiles could hardly focus in the rest of his classes, his thoughts constantly wandering back to Lydia and Peter. It was in a special kind of agony he was in. Stiles wanted to track Peter down and vent his goddamn _spleen_ on the man for tormenting his former crush, but, at the same time, something was holding him back.

The same instinct that made him keep secrets from his father, that made him tell lies and half-truths to protect others (and himself), was cautioning him against seeking a confrontation.

Normally, Stiles didn't bother too much with all of the "what if's" before he charged into something, but this time was different. He was new to this situation, to having someone interested in him (in _any_ capacity), and because of that, Stiles was afraid of scaring Peter off―which sounded completely ridiculous even inside of _his_ head because, if he had any sense at all, then _he _would be afraid of Peter, _period_.

Unfortunately, a big part of Stiles's indecision about confronting Peter about Lydia stemmed from not wanting to fuck up…_whatever_ it was that he and Peter had.

And Stiles kind of hated himself for it.

Well, for that and the fact that he really didn't know what he would say once he got in front of the older man―'hey, you're a dick for tormenting my former crush in your effort to come back from the dead, even though it gave me a shot at sexy times with an actual living, breathing person'?

Yeah, no Catch 22 there.

Needless to say, Stiles spent the rest of school flustered and restless, his emotions oscillating between righteous indignation and mindless panic. He counted himself lucky that his constant fidgeting and seat-shifting hadn't earned him a detention (especially in Harris's class).

After school, Stiles had gone home and immediately set himself to tackling the growing pile of laundry, content to set his dilemma on the backburner and procrastinate his way to a decision―which essentially amounted to dicking with shit around the house until he had no excuse keeping him from avoiding the issue any longer.

Darkness had fallen by the time Stiles finally got in his Jeep and set off in the direction of the abandoned rail station. He hadn't bothered to text or call Peter, but from what Isaac said Stiles figured that he had a 50/50 chance of finding the older man there.

Stiles parked about a half mile away from the station. The distance had two benefits: 1) to avoid suspicion in case someone happened to come looking and 2) there would be plenty of time for Stiles to turn back unnoticed if he changed his mind (it's hard to save face when you chicken out on a werewolf's doorstep).

Stiles had only been walking through the woods for a couple minutes before he stopped dead in his tracks. In front of him, a pair of eyes was glowing in his direction.

Unfortunately, they weren't blue―they were yellow.

_Fuck_, Stiles mentally groaned.

He had been so intent on finding Peter that it had slipped his mind that he would probably run into one of the others in the process. And after what happened at lunch, Stiles was in no mood to talk to Isaac.

"Hey, how's it goin'?" he called in a fake-chipper voice as Isaac came closer, stopping a few feet away. The werewolf was illuminated in splotches of moonlight, making it difficult for Stiles to read his face.

Isaac shrugged, his hands half-buried in his pockets. "It's goin'. The full moon's a couple of days off. The tension's starting to set in already so I thought I'd wander around the woods for a while, try to get rid of some of it. You're a little off the beaten path, though. Come out to see your boyfriend?"

For some reason, the word 'boyfriend' made the hair stand up on the back of Stiles's neck. Maybe because he himself had yet to string 'boyfriend' and 'Peter' together in the same sentence. Feeling overwhelmed, Stiles shoved the issue of exactly what Peter was to him aside. He had more immediate problems to deal with, like the temperamental werewolf staring intently at him in the middle of the freaking woods.

A shiver ran through Stiles and he tamped down the urge to turn around and book it to his Jeep.

"Uh, yeah," Stiles said, trying to puff up a protective layer of bravado to bluff his way out of his discomfort. "He doesn't have a car so I figured I'd save him a trip. Can't make him come over _all _the time, y'know? That's not fair. Sooooo I'll just…get going. Don't want to keep him waiting," Stiles hedged as he skirted awkwardly around Isaac.

The werewolf stood still and quietly followed Stiles's progress with his eyes, making no move to stop him. Stiles slowly released the breath he'd been holding and kept on walking.

"There were other ways, you know."

Stiles halted mid-step and whipped around to look at Isaac, dread clawing at his insides. Somehow, he knew there was more to the other teen's silence. "What?"

Isaac had turned to face him and was stalking closer, his approach highlighted by the patches of moonlight moving over him.

"To get in. You must want it bad, to go through Peter. It was smart though. I mean," Isaac chuckled, "you have to be the first piece of ass they guy's had in _years_. I can see why he couldn't say no. Some scrawny, defenseless jailbait coming on to him? I bet he couldn't get you out of your pants fast enough."

Isaac was close, too close, and Stiles had to fight to stay still as he felt Isaac's warm breath on his face.

Inside, Stiles cringed from the poison dripping from Isaac's words. It was like he was paralyzed by them and could do nothing but listen helplessly as each word sank into his skin, making him feel sick.

He jumped slightly when Isaac's hand brushed along his jaw.

"Using Peter might've been the easy way in, but you didn't have to go through _him_," Isaac whispered cloyingly. "You should have come to _me_. I'm closer to Derek than Peter is, more trusted. If you ask me…_nicely_," Isaac's thumb smoothed across Stiles's lower lip, "I could persuade Derek to help you out."

A hand smoothed down Stiles's abdomen and the touch brought him out of his confusion-filled daze.

He glared and jerked back so that a few feet separated him from Isaac. "What the hell are you talking about?" Stiles asked tersely. He had half a mind to call Derek to collect his beta because Isaac was _definitely_ losing it.

Isaac laughed, humorlessly. "The _bite_. Why _else_ would you be banging Peter?"

Stiles grit his teeth and clenched his fists as his temper flared. "I don't _want_ the bite, okay? Not all of us are so eager to try fixing our personal problems by adding half a dozen supernatural ones. That's _not_ why I'm with Peter."

Isaac snorted and eyed him incredulously. "Really? Does Peter know that?"

"Yeah, he does. He was the one who brought the subject up a―, a while ago," Stiles said, glossing over the finer points of that conversation.

Isaac's brows arched high in disbelief. "So you're banging the pedo-zombie because you _want_ to?" Laughter bubbled in Isaac's voice, like the idea was hilarious.

Rage rippled through Stiles. He was done with Isaac's insults and crude innuendos. Scratch that, he was done with Isaac period right now. And Isaac's dumping on Peter over technicalities was the last straw. Blinded by his anger, Stiles darted forward and swung his fist at Isaac's face, uncaring of the other teen's greater speed and strength―both of which Isaac used to avoid Stiles's assault.

Isaac caught his fist easily, using Stiles's momentum to swing him around and pin him against a nearby tree.

Rough bark scraped Stiles's cheek as he tried to free himself. The fist he had thrown was twisted behind his back and held in Isaac's hand. Stiles flushed, humiliated. Isaac was holding him to the tree with only _one freaking hand_.

But he soon forgot his wounded pride as fear crept in.

It wasn't from being shoved around by someone bigger and stronger than him (sadly, he was almost used to that). No, what really unnerved him was when Isaac molded himself to Stiles's back, becoming a solid line of heat from shoulder to thigh.

"I'm curious," Isaac whispered confidentially into his ear. "If Peter knows you don't want the bite, then what's so special about a twitchy, annoying kid like you that's got his attention? Or are you just a good lay?"

Isaac's free hand―his _clawed_ free hand― dragged up Stiles's thigh to his hip, gripping it tightly.

Stiles's heart rate skyrocketed. This level of unwanted touching had _exponentially_ surpassed Isaac's behavior in the cafeteria. And Scott was miles away when Stiles needed him most. Oh god, he should have just driven up to the damn rail station. He should have let someone―_anyone_―know where he was going. He should have just stayed home doing his homework or playing World of Warcraft. He should have―

Stiles choked on his spit when Isaac's hips started to move in a slow grind against his ass. There was no mistaking what that bulge in Isaac's pants was. Isaac was hard as steel and Stiles's mind blanked as the soft panting in his ear took on a whole different meaning.

A soft growl escaped Isaac's lips and it triggered Stiles's (apparently latent) survival instinct. He flailed his free arm backwards desperately, slapping at Isaac's hip and side; he even attempted to donkey kick Isaac's shins, but the closeness and awkward angle merely turned Stiles's escape attempts into an awkward wiggle that only served to dig the tree bark harder into his chest.

Isaac tightened his hold, his hand becoming a band of iron around Stiles's wrist. The werewolf pressed even closer, effectively hindering all movement beyond pitiful hand flaps.

Stiles let his body go limp, held up only by the hard wall of supernatural strength behind him.

"…no…" he whispered. The reality of the situation crashed down around him and the shock of it wiped any other word out of his mind.

Isaac nudged the shell of Stiles's ear with his nose. "_Fuck_, you smell like sex. Such a fucking _whore_, showing up to school smelling like a bitch in heat. You _still_ smell like a bitch in heat. I bet you're hot for it all the time. You want me to help you out?"

"N-no," Stiles whispered, his voice cracking. Tremors wracked his body and he bit his lip to keep from whimpering.

Isaac pawed at his hip, his claws catching in the material covering it. "I bet you're _gagging_ for it. You _need_," Isaac ground his cock harder against the curve of Stiles's ass, "to be fucked, don't you?"

"_No_," Stiles gasped out, the word coming out louder as panic forced his breath out in sharp, quick pants.

Isaac's claws dug purposefully into his jeans. "Scream for me, bitch," he growled heatedly. "Tell me how much you want it."

The sound of material tearing shot through the night air and suddenly Stiles could feel a cool breeze on his skin. "_NO!_" Stiles cried out, using the last of his strength to thrash violently between Isaac and the tree because like _fuck_ if he was going to lose his virginity like _this_, not to _Isaac_, not when he wanted to lose it to―

A vicious snarl rang out just before the unrelenting pressure holding Stiles to the tree disappeared.

Releasing a broken sob, Stiles slid down the tree trunk and collapsed on the ground, only distantly aware of the fight going on behind him. Dull thuds (the sound of flesh being repeatedly hit) reached his ears, but Stiles remained facing the tree, numb to the world around him as he tried to get his breathing back under control.

"Stiles."

Limbs trembling, Stiles slowly twisted around and sighed with relief at the sight of Peter, eyes blazing and fangs bared, kneeling atop Isaac's back, keeping the younger werewolf pinned flat to the ground with the threat of claws on the back of his neck and the arm that Peter had twisted up behind Isaac's back.

"Are you alright?" Peter asked softly, his eyes darting over Stiles's body in search of injuries. He looked furious, his gaze hardening as he took in the state of Stiles's clothes and the scent of terror oozing from the teen.

"Um." Quickly, Stiles skimmed his hands over his body. "Y-yeah, I'm good. My, my pants are trashed, though." They really were, too. There would be no fixing this pair, not with how Isaac tore them: four long slashes angled right across the side seam. A little darning here and there, Stiles could manage, but that didn't make him a fucking _seamstress_. But that was fine. It wasn't like he really wanted a keepsake from this, anyway.

Now that Isaac was restrained by Peter, Stiles felt himself calm down enough to scoot closer, getting a better look at his almost-rapist.

Isaac was covered in dirt and forest debris, and there were several places where blood seeped out through tears in his clothes (most likely damage from Peter's claws). His face sported cuts and bruises (all of which were already slowly healing) and there was a smear of blood on his upper lip that made Stiles think Peter had broken Isaac's nose at some point during the scuffle. But it was the expression on Isaac's face that confused Stiles.

He looked resigned, guilty. There was no trace of the cocky smirk he'd worn most of the day.

Stiles cleared his throat nervously. "Why, uh, why did he do that? Attack me?" he asked Peter, his eyes fixed on Isaac's prone form in case he managed to find his way out from under the older man.

"Probably several reasons," Peter replied, watching Isaac, too. "The biggest factor being the full moon coming up. Isaac's newly turned. He doesn't yet have the level of control built up to reign in his baser urges, like killing or fucking. Think of him as a giant toddler, only with the strength and knowledge to get what he wants."

"The full moon made him do this?" Stiles frowned. "I don't get it. I've been through several of Scott's full moons and he _never_ did anything like this. Nothing past the attempted murder part, anyways. And Scott's just as horny as the next guy."

Peter looked at him askance, like the answer was obvious. "Scott isn't attracted to men. He's also so emotionally wrapped around Allison's finger that the ones he poses the most danger to are Allison and those that get in his way to her. Scott's something of a special case. While _he's_ got a particular person to focus his attention on, the rest of us," he dug his claws into Isaac's neck, making him flinch and whimper, "are somewhat less selective about who we take our aggression out on."

_Oh._

Stiles squirmed uncomfortably on the ground. He'd been looking at it backwards. Scott wasn't the control group, he was the anomaly. Apparently comparing the effects of Scott's transformation to Isaac's had been one of his suckier mistakes.

And wearing his pheromone-covered jeans all day was probably what had tipped Isaac over the edge, with Stiles virtually smelling like an animal in heat.

Okay, that wasn't fair. _Stiles_ had been the one attacked by a horny werewolf, so why did _he_ feel like the ass, here?

Peter leaned down to speak directly into the teen's ear.

"Just so we're clear, Isaac, if you _ever_ touch him again," he whispered, his voice deadly calm, "if I so much as _smell_ you on him, well…" Peter laughed menacingly under his breath, an amused smirk playing around his lips. "I don't need to tell you what would happen. _Do_ I, Isaac?" he asked, emphasizing the question with a squeeze his hand, his claws puncturing the teen's skin.

"N-no," Isaac gasped out.

"You have two choices," Peter said. "Either you go back to Derek on your own power and explain to him what you nearly did or I'll call him myself and have him drag you back to the station like the out-of-control animal you seem to be." He viciously twisted Isaac's arm up further. "Pick."

"On, on my own," Isaac grit out, looking furious, though whether it was with Peter or with himself for losing control so badly, Stiles hadn't a clue.

Stiles's eyes were wide, shocked by Peter's hostility on his behalf. This was a side of Peter he hadn't seen in a while, not since the night of Formal, the side of him that could threaten bodily harm with a disarming smile and mean every single word of it―and it almost gave Stiles butterflies to see it aimed at Isaac (or at anyone besides himself, really).

After staring down at Isaac for a long while, assessing him, Peter retracted his claws and released the teen, standing in one fluid motion.

Leaving Isaac to his own devices, he walked over to Stiles and offered him a hand (non-clawed).

Stiles let Peter tug him to his feet and was grateful when the older man didn't immediately let go. His legs were still a little shaky and Stiles hoped fervently that his control would return soon because he really didn't know if he could stand the embarrassment if Peter had to carry him.

Isaac was nearly to the tree line when Peter called out to him again.

"Aren't you forgetting something, Isaac?" he asked, glancing pointedly at Stiles.

A constipated look crossed Isaac's features as he gazed at the teen he had nearly raped. "I'm sorry for losing control. I didn't mean to hurt you," he said morosely, his voice so quiet that Stiles almost couldn't hear the apology.

Running his hand rapidly across his scalp, Stiles exhaled in resignation. "It's fine, dude. Just don't make a habit out it 'cause I'm gonna start carrying around werewolf-grade pepper spray. Got it?"

Lips twisted in a wry grin, Isaac nodded hesitantly and took off into the woods, leaving Stiles alone with Peter. Which was fine up until Stiles remembered why he had come out here in the first place―and didn't _that_ make things awkward.

How the hell was he supposed to let loose on Peter when the man had _literally_ just saved his ass?

Stiles started minutely when Peter gently grasped his chin, using it to turn his head this way and that to better see the scratches on Stiles's cheek from when he'd been pinned to the tree. Peter released him to skim his hands over Stiles's chest and hips, making sure for himself that Stiles wasn't hurt anywhere else. He lingered over the tears left by Isaac's claws, his expression simultaneously sad and angry.

Stiles knew that the anger wasn't directed at him, but he still felt irrationally responsible, as though _he_ was the one upsetting Peter (and if that wasn't victim self-blame cropping up already then Stiles was the Queen of England).

Peter tenderly cupped the back of Stiles's neck, his thumb skating across the bruises he himself had created two days ago. "Are you alright?" he asked again, his brows drawn in concern.

Leaning into the touch, Stiles nodded, taking comfort in the grounding touch. He _was_ fine, physically at least, though thoroughly exhausted. Emotionally, he might be scarred for life, but Stiles had already chalked it up as another byproduct of dealing with those of the werewolf persuasion.

"Come on," Peter murmured, encouraging Stiles back in the direction he had come with a gentle tug before letting his hand fall away. "Let's get you home."

Numbly, Stiles fell into step beside Peter and they walked in silence to where the Jeep was parked.

Resting his hands flat on the driver's door, Stiles closed his eyes and leaned his weight against it, pushing as though it would transfer the fuzzy feeling of _nothing_ out of his head and into something else, _anything_ else.

He heard Peter come up and lean on the Jeep beside him, but Stiles didn't move to acknowledge him.

"What brought you out here tonight, Stiles?" Peter asked softly.

Huffing under his breath, Stiles gathered up the remnants of his pride and did what he did best when he was unsure of how to proceed: he bluffed his way through it.

"Can't a guy just visit his…man…friend…thing?" he fumbled, unable to use the word 'boyfriend' as easily as Isaac had.

"You could," Peter allowed, "but that's not all of it, is it?" He eyed Stiles shrewdly, noting the tension in his shoulders and how Stiles wouldn't quite meet his eyes. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm a big boy, Stiles, I can handle it."

They stood in silence for a long time before Stiles felt his resolve to leave this conversation for another day crumble, knowing that Peter would only catch him in a lie if he tried to dance around the issue any longer.

Still leaning against the Jeep, Stiles let his head hang between his arms.

"Lydia," he sighed out, like that one word said it all.

Clearly it didn't because Peter blinked at him in confusion, as though he had expected Stiles to say something else. "What about her?" he asked, sounding unsure of where the discussion was going.

To be honest, Stiles didn't have that much of a grasp on it either.

He took a deep breath and barreled on, a small part him already mourning the sex he'd never have. "It was Lydia, wasn't it?" Stiles stated more than asked as he finally turned to face Peter. He crossed his arms defensively in front of his chest. "She helped you come back."

Realization flickered in Peter's eyes and some of the rigidity left his stance. "Yes," he admitted, his carefully neutral expression not giving away any of his thoughts.

"So…" Stiles floundered, hoping Peter would volunteer more information, but received nothing. "Why didn't you tell me?" he finished weakly, settling on his least accusing question. He didn't have the stomach to go into a full-blown fight at the moment and, quite frankly, even _this_ was pushing his frayed nerves.

Peter studied him for a few seconds before answering.

"Mostly because I know what she meant to you a few months ago, what she might _still_ mean to you, and I knew that the truth would upset you. That, and…I _really_ didn't want to sabotage this just as it's starting, not with something from the past that I have no power to change. Not that I _would_ change using Lydia to come back because I _couldn't_ have used anyone else. She was my only option and I had to make do with what I had. The initial dying part, though. _That_ I'd change," he finished candidly.

Stiles mulled the older man's words around in his head, wishing he could hear Peter's heart beat to weigh the truth in them. The words _felt_ authentic enough. And Stiles couldn't find fault in Peter's logic. Irritating as it was, Peter seemed to have done what Stiles would have done in his position―omit information to protect someone, to protect _himself_.

"What did you mean by 'sabotaging' this? What _is _this?" Stiles asked, wanting to kick himself for asking the second after the words fell from his mouth.

Fuck, he was too tired and stressed to have a serious conversation to label their relationship. Why did his verbal filter always vanish _right_ when he needed it most?

Peter cocked his head, looking faintly puzzled. "I'm not sure yet…but I'm curious to find out," he said softly, gazing at Stiles with a question in his eyes.

And that's what it came down to, really.

Curiosity.

Deep inside, Stiles was insatiably curious. And here was Peter Hale, a great big question mark willingly offering himself to Stiles―and Stiles wasn't exactly known for his impulse control. Especially not when he was being given a choice in the matter. Lately, it seemed like 'take Stiles's choices away' was a reoccurring theme and nearly everyone had participated.

His dad, Derek, Scott, Mr. Harris, Gerard, Matt, hell even _Isaac_ had nearly joined in―

A shudder ran down Stiles's spine as images of what might've happened had Peter not found them in time filling his head. Or if Peter hadn't found them at all…

Isaac wouldn't have given him a choice. But _Peter_ was offering one.

Stiles wasn't delusional. He knew that at the heart of most relationships lay the hope of sex. And while he was new to this game, Peter wasn't, and had _still_ given him a choice every step of the way. Peter hadn't forced or coerced him at all―and Stiles knew first-hand what it was like to have Peter use those tactics.

To have an enigma like Peter _offering_ more instead of simply taking it…

Stiles had already decided.

A hand brushed across his jaw, but this time Stiles didn't flinch.

"What are you thinking about?" Peter asked, looking curious and apprehensive.

"Um," Stiles cleared his throat. "Just…what might've happened if you hadn't, y'know, pulled him off of me."

Peter's thumb grazed his lower lip, eyes flashing dangerously. "I'd have ripped him apart for hurting you, for taking something like that from you. You know that, don't you?" he asked, completely serious.

Stiles fidgeted with a corner of his jacket sleeve, shivering as a cool breeze teased at the exposed skin of his hip. Oddly, he found Peter's threat of violence comforting.

"Yeah, okay. I just…I'm glad you showed up before he did anything...because I want my first to be you." A thrill of terror (though nothing like he'd experienced earlier) sang through him from telling Peter _to his face_ that he wanted the older man to take his virginity, from finally admitting that he was new to all of this and wanted Peter to show him everything.

From the way Peter's breathing had picked up, Stiles thought it was safe to assume that he wasn't the only one affected by the admission.

A hungry look crept into Peter's eyes and suddenly Stiles was shivering for an entirely different reason. "You remember what I said about the full moon, don't you? I might be more in control, but I'm far from unaffected by its influence. It's not a good idea to offer me something that I can't refuse."

Leaning back against the Jeep, Stiles wrapped his hand around Peter's wrist, tugging the older man into his personal space.

He could still feel the ghost of Isaac's hands on his skin and he badly wanted rid of it. He had a pretty good idea of how to go about it, but…he needed Peter to lose some of his control.

And if it killed two birds with one stone? Then all the better.

"I don't want you to refuse," Stiles whispered against Peter's lips before closing the gap between them. The kiss was gentle for a few seconds, but then Stiles opened his mouth to Peter's questing tongue and he found himself pressed hard to the door of his Jeep as Peter kissed him rough and dirty with hints of fang nipping at his lip.

Stiles wound his arms around Peter and ground his hips against the older man's hardening cock, eager to release some of the tension that had been building inside of him for hours.

The answering urgency in Peter's movements showed that _he_ needed this as much as Stiles did.

Stiles pulled away long enough to mutter "my house is empty, we should _really_―"

Peter cut him off with a kiss.

"We will," he whispered raggedly against Stiles's lips as he fumbled to open the teen's pants. "We will." Then a warm hand wrapped around Stiles, jacking him almost inhumanly fast, and it was all Stiles could do to stay on his feet as he moaned and writhed against the Jeep.

It was over in less than a minute, Stiles spilling himself into Peter's hand, but he couldn't find it in him to be embarrassed by how fast he'd come, not when Peter had whipped out his own cock and was jerking it hard and fast, Stiles's come slicking the way, and then Peter was groaning through his own orgasm, his come splattering over Stiles's jacket and ruined jeans.

Breathing hard, Peter leaned forward to press his forehead to Stiles's, seeming not to care that their combined release was smearing onto his clothes. He placed a chaste kiss to Stiles's lips.

"_Now_, your house," Peter said, nudging his nose against Stiles's before stepping back a pace.

Feeling lighter than he had all day, Stiles smiled to himself as Peter helped him climb into the Jeep, his legs still shaky from orgasm. Christ, if only _all _of his life threatening encounters ended in mind-blowing sex, Stiles would be far more on board with all of the supernatural drama that found its way to Beacon Hills.

Once Peter had settled into the passenger seat, Stiles fired up the Jeep and turned her around back towards town, amazed by how he could go from dreading the loss of his sex life to virtually being guaranteed one all in the same night.


	8. Chapter 8

They had driven in silence for a few minutes before Stiles's ADHD cropped up with a vengeance. He had questions― _oodles _of questions― that he wanted to throw at the man beside him, and he sat agonizing over what to bombard him with first. A part of Stiles was still bothered that he wanted to jump into bed with a man he knew next to nothing about (especially since that man was _Peter_).

Hell, even his obsession with Lydia had been about more than just her pretty face, her nice body, her luscious strawberry-blonde hair…

Anyways, it had been everything else about her. And now Stiles wanted to know _Peter's_ 'everything else' and he felt somewhat overwhelmed. Stiles felt Peter's eyes on him and, though he tried to keep from fidgeting restlessly in his seat, suppressing himself only seemed to make things worse.

Sighing softly, Peter cocked his head so he could look at Stiles from more than just the corner of his eye. "You seem antsy. Is there something wrong? Anything you need to ask me?"

Stiles let out an incredulous 'puh' and glanced at the man next to him as often as he dared while trying to keep them on the road. "Uh, only about a _million_ questions. Although a few more have cropped up since this whole...escapade―"

"Escapade?" Peter interrupted, amused.

"Yeah, escapade." Stiles asserted. "When you've only ever had your own hand helping you reach nirvana, getting off three times in as many days with the help of someone else _definitely_ qualifies as an escapade, buddy, and I will _not_ let anyone tell me differently."

Peter chuckled and shook his head. "Well…try to ask one at a time, then" he said, a tiny smile playing around his lips.

"Okay, so…" Stiles breathed out as he slowed down for a four-way stop. "What are you doing? I mean, like, generally? When you're not at the rail depot? Isaac said you're not there all the time, so where do you go? What do you do? Oh god, that was more than one question, wasn't it?" Stiles cringed in his seat, being extraordinarily careful accelerating to avoid grinding in second gear.

Peter looked more than a little bemused by the volley of questions. "You want a play-by-play of my daily movements? And Isaac says _I'm_ creepy," he smirked.

"Hey, _Isaac _just tried to give me the bad touch against a frickin' _tree_. I'm willing to be biased if you are," Stiles said, enjoying the banter. There weren't many people who put up with his verbal sparring. It was kind of nice, having someone around who liked it as much as he did. It almost felt like foreplay. "But no, I meant do you have a job or something?"

Peter grimaced at the question, as if it physically pained him. "Not yet, unfortunately. That, like many things, are currently still in the works. And, as much as I'd like, there's only so much I can do to speed up the process."

"'In the works'?" Stiles asked. "'Things'? As in a lot of them? What kind of things?" He couldn't imagine there were many priorities for displaced werewolves beyond 'avoid hunters' and 'brood in abandoned lairs'."

"We're moving to have me declared legally dead," Peter said tonelessly, as though he'd argued the subject so many times that he was emotionally closed off to the issue.

Stiles gaped at him sidelong, only just managing to keep between the lines on the road. "Dead? As in, not living? When you very much are?"

Sighing exasperatedly, Peter let his head fall back on the head rest with a dull 'thunk'. "That doesn't matter."

"How does being alive not matter? What about your old life? Pre-Kate Argent?"

"That life ended the day my family was burned alive," Peter murmured softly, lolling his head to stare vacantly out the passenger window.

And wow, did Stiles suddenly feel like a total ass.

Peter sighed again and shrugged helplessly. "Peter Hale has been documented as a longtime coma patient with extremely limited responsiveness and burns covering half his body. There's no possible way for me to just waltz back into my old life, fully healed and mobile, after disappearing from my hospital bed over three months ago. Not even plastic surgery can explain away my skin. I mean, really, look at this," Peter leaned closer to Stiles, peacocking. "You see how smooth and flawless this is?"

Stiles smiled tentatively at the obvious attempt to lighten the mood. If this was Peter's way of forgiving his lack of tact, then Stiles was definitely on board with it. "Wow, you're not conceited at all, are you? You're _convinced_," Stiles shot back with a playful smirk.

But he did reach over to stroke the smooth skin of Peter's cheek with his thumb. It really was flawless.

Peter caught his hand and pressed a light kiss to his inner wrist. "_Very_ convinced," Peter purred over the sensitive skin.

Stiles shivered and pulled away, his pants beginning to tighten uncomfortably. Damn charming werewolves and their sex appeal… He cleared his throat. "Right, so no-go after being comatose, got it. So, what are you gonna do?"

"I've had Derek get in touch with our family's old lawyer, both to make arrangements for my official death ruling and for the suit against the hospital. It's slow-going from having to wait out the legalities. But I do have a…less than reputable friend a lot of high-end resources who owes me a favor. For a price, he can virtually create a new life for me: a new social security number, a new history, a new employment record―the works."

"But…?" Stiles prompted, because this felt like a place for a 'but' since _clearly_ there was a reason why 'the works' were still _in_ the works.

"_But_," Peter allowed, there's a fee and he needs it up front―or most of it, anyways. Which is where the lawsuit comes in. I'm hoping that having my death made official combined with the charges we're pressing will force the hospital to take a settlement to keep the whole thing hushed up. It doesn't look good when a hospital 'loses' a coma patient. Their reputation is on the line."

Stiles nodded to himself, following Peter's reasoning. "Then you'll use the settlement money to pay your guy for a ticket back to a real life. Wait, what about the nurse you killed? The one in the car? I haven't heard anything about her being found, but I just thought it got lost in the wake of the kanima thing. Wouldn't an investigation into her death make things difficult?"

"Only if she's found," Peter said, a sly smile creeping up onto his face. "Until then, no. Derek managed to help me out there without even realizing it. After he killed me, he found the car with my nurse in the trunk and drove it into a water-filled sink hole deep in Beacon Hills Preserve. He figured that the best course of action was to make her disappear. And since _I_ disappeared on the same night, it would look as though she'd had a hand in it somehow, seeing as she was my main nurse and was on shift that night. Oh, and the photos that she took of me probably don't hurt, either. When they're found, I'm sure they'll help make the case that she was obsessed enough with me to go through with kidnapping."

"What?" Stiles squeaked out, stomping on the break a little harder than necessary for the red light of the first intersection into Beacon Hills. "What photos?" A mixture of outrage and jealousy flooded his system at the thought of the crazy bitch snapping shots of _his_ Peter while he was weak and defenseless (never mind that he may have already been a psychotic murderer at the time, but Stiles found himself overlooking a lot of technicalities these days).

"Mostly of my face―the good side. I _think_ there may have been a few of my chest, but I wasn't really _mentally_ present during them. Possibly one or two below the waist line. Who know? Maybe I was responding better to stimulus than they have on record." Peter cocked his head and studied Stiles with interest. "You know, as flattering and intoxicating as your jealousy is, the light _is_ green, Stiles. Unless you want to wait for the next one?"

Cursing under his breath, Stiles fumbled for the gearshift and coaxed the Jeep through the intersection just as the light turned yellow.

He wasn't sure how much of the 'picture' story was real and how much was just to rile him up, but it didn't really matter since it had the desired effect of making Stiles fume in his seat at the mental image of the bitch stroking Peter's cock to hardness, getting him nice and pretty for a freaking _photo_―

Peter's hand squeezed firmly around his thigh as the older man leaned over to speak in his ear.

"You have no idea how good you smell like this, but you really don't have to worry. Any erections sustained in her care, theoretical or otherwise, are _nothing_ compared to how hard I get just from _thinking_ about you."

"Well, ain't you sweet," Stiles drawled sarcastically as he tried for stoicism― which, as it turns out, isn't easy when the hand on your thigh moves up to cup you through your jeans. Stiles may have nearly overcorrected the Jeep into the ditch at that.

"I can be _very_ sweet," Peter purred in his ear, his voice husky with double entendre. "I'd be even _sweeter_," Peter stroked a line across Stiles's cock with his thumb, "but…I think it might be best if we kept the Jeep _out_ of the tree line, don't you?"

And with that, he slid back into his seat, looking far too smug.

"So," Peter said, as if he hadn't just teased Stiles with thoughts of road head, "essentially, I'm waiting for the wheels of the legal system to squeak along so that I can buy a new life because, believe me, the hobo way of life is _not_ as appealing as you might think."

"I dunno," Stiles said absently as they came into town, the street lights along the road cropping up more frequently to bathe them every few seconds with light. "Derek seems to have it down to an art."

"Derek has an endless tap of masochistic tendencies that are in desperate need of therapy. Most of us are somewhat attached to clean clothes and basic utilities," Peter countered.

Stiles snorted at the jab, officially calmed down from his jealousy fit. "I guess Derek's the one making the arrangements? For the legal stuff?"

Peter nodded.

"He's my go-between with the lawyer. It's been like pulling teeth sometimes, getting him to ask the right questions, fill out the proper paperwork… Most of the time, all he wants to do is search for his betas. I have to keep reminding him that the sooner the legal hoops are jumped through, the sooner I can pick up the slack on the _illegal_ end and be out of his hair. For the most part. I still need him in some regard as my Alpha otherwise I risk falling to omega status. You know, coming back from the dead was the easy part; dealing with all the paperwork is the _real_ hard part."

He folded his arms petulantly, seeming highly put upon at having to bribe his way back to independence.

"I'll try to remember that that if I ever want to come back from the dead," Stiles quipped. He felt his attention beginning to wander to the prospect of food as they passed fast food joint after fast food joint. "So, what are you going to call yourself?" he asked curiously.

Peter raised an eye brow at him. "Peter Hale."

"What? No, you can't use the same name."

"Why not? Peter retorted. "It's hardly unique. And it's _mine_."

"Really?" Stiles threw back incredulously. "_Really?_ A Peter Hale gets declared legally dead in Beacon Hills, then another just so happens to crop up in his place?"

"A _comatose_ and _badly scarred_ Peter Hale will be declared legally dead. Do I look comatose and badly scarred to you?"

"Just― Really? You don't see the problem with using your own name?" Stiles asked, with no small amount of aggression as they pulled onto his street.

"Problems? _What_ problems?_ Who_ in their right mind is going to connect the healthy Peter Hale to the one who was an inch from death? What idiot would believe―"

"The Argents," Stiles interrupted heatedly as they pulled into his driveway. They jerked to a halt as he parked the Jeep with less care than usual. Stiles fumbled with his seatbelt, irritated beyond belief that Peter, who had nearly _died_ at the hand of an Argent, was refusing to take the danger of putting one too many coincidences in one place seriously.

Peter stared at him, startled into silence by the vehemence in Stiles's voice.

"They know who was responsible for Kate's death," Stiles hissed, "and now that Gerard is dead, what if an entire fleet of them stormed Beacon Hills to wipe out the Hale pack? What if coming back with the same name draws their attention and makes them come _looking_ for you, and they _find _you, and they―"

The rest of Stiles's tirade was cut off as Peter cupped the nape of his neck and pulled him over to press their lips together, kissing him with a harsh desperation that made Stiles scramble over from the driver's seat into Peter's lap all without breaking the kiss, getting momentarily hung up on the gearshift. Straddling the older man, Stiles fisted Peter's hair and kissed him like he meant to crawl into the older man's _skin_. Peter gave as good as he got, petting and groping as much of Stiles as he could reach.

It was rough and uncoordinated with a good amount of teeth clashing, but Stiles felt vindicated at releasing his aggression on Peter, who was so frustrating and charming and mind-bogglingly sexy in a way that made Stiles growl deep in his throat and rock his hips down against the older man's.

Peter broke the kiss with a snarl and attacked the vulnerable line of Stiles's neck, making the teen squirm and curse in his lap with every new bruise he raised. Breathing harshly, Peter leaned back to admire his work. "You know, if there was ever a time that I could kick myself for not biting you when I had the chance, it would be now."

Eyes narrowed, Stiles tugged warningly on the handful of hair he was still gripping. "Oh yeah? And why's that?"

Peter's expression darkened.

"Because all I want to do right now is rip off your clothes and just _take_ you, and I _can't_," he growled from between clenched teeth, his eyes flashing briefly with tightly contained power.

"Yeah? Well, I want a boyfriend who's a little less hell-bent on getting himself riddled with wolfsbane bullets _right after_ he made the effort to come back to life, but we can't all get what we want," Stiles snarled back.

He released his hold on Peter's hair and sat back on the older man's knees, collapsing in on himself a bit. The fight drained out of him and left him feeling absolutely exhausted, uncaring that (in a half-assed sort of way) he had admitted to wanting to be more than just someone to fool around with. The silence around them felt thick with all that they had and hadn't said and, to Stiles, it was suffocating.

Peter was considering him uncertainly.

"You're worried about the Argents killing me?" he asked, the question sounding confused and tinged with disbelief.

Stiles shrugged jerkily, feeling horribly fragile for some reason.

No matter what Peter could call himself, he would always be the potential target of a hunter. But Stiles's unstable concoction of scary/new feelings for Peter made that possibility seem like more of a reality. It was fraying his already damaged nerves that _he _was more concerned about drawing the wrath of the hunters than Peter was.

"Their leader is dead and their clan is divided. The Argent threat is gone, Stiles. They lost their fight here and most of them have left. They won't come back to look for me, not when they think I'm already dead. They won't make that connection―"

"You don't know that," Stiles interrupted softly, his voice sounding broken even to his own ears. "You can't be sure―"

"I'm _never_ sure," Peter interjected. "Not 100%. Not since the night of my death. I went into that fight feeling sure of my victory and I paid dearly for it. I got my revenge, but I lost my pack and _that_ is a lesson I can't forget. So, no, I'm not sure that the hunters won't come back to Beacon Hills, but I _can_ promise you that they'll have one _hell_ of a fight on their hands if they come for me because I will rip every last hunter to shreds should they try to take me from your side," he finished, his eyes bright with his conviction.

"And if you're worried about me leaving, then stop. The only thing that can force me away from you _is_ you, Stiles. Not Derek, not Scott, or Isaac or _anyone_ else. Just you. The only ones with the power to keep me away with any finiteness is you and death, and you _need_ to understand that," Peter whispered urgently, taking one of Stiles's limp hands into his own and held it, their fingers winding together.

Peter rested his forehead to Stiles's and waited patiently for the teen to look him in the eye longer than in quick glances.

"I have the chance to live again, Stiles, and I'm going to take it. I've suffered too long at the hands of people who would see me dead before letting me live like a normal person. I won't roll over and let them win."

Stiles snorted involuntarily as an image of Peter rolling over like a dog flashed through his mind.

"I mean it," Peter said. He stared earnestly into Stiles's eyes. "I'm not worried about keeping my own name. Of _all_ the things to worry about, _that_ doesn't even make my top ten, right now."

Stiles sniffed brusquely, hoping to play it off as allergies rather than a fight to tamp down the tears that were threatening to fall. "What _does_ make your list?" he asked solemnly, somewhat mollified.

Oddly, Peter seemed to hesitate before smiling reassuringly at Stiles. "Nothing that you need to worry about right now." He passed a critical eye over the teen. "What say you we go inside? Maybe get you into some clothes that _haven't_ been mauled by a horny werewolf?"

Shaking his head in amazement, Stiles reached over and yanked his keys out of the ignition. "Never thought I'd hear you tell me to put my clothes back _on_." Ignoring Peter's eye roll, he opened the door and all but fell out of the Jeep, Peter's sudden grip on his arm the only thing preventing him from kissing the concrete.

After Peter released him and smoothly (the graceful bastard) got out of the Jeep, they walked up the winding path to the front door.

"You know, it's still a shame that you're not gonna take advantage of the opportunity you have here," Stiles said as he played with his keys. After the tension in Jeep, he felt an overwhelming urge to lighten the mood. He couldn't resist teasing the older man and he hoped Peter would rise to the bait.

"Opportunity?" Peter's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Yeah, you could pick any name you wanted and you're sticking with 'Peter Hale' when you could make it, I dunno, something cool."

Peter huffed indignantly, watching Stiles fiddle with the door lock. "'Peter Hale' _is_ a cool name."

"You're biased," Stiles tossed over his shoulder as he walked into the house, not even checking to see if the older man followed, seemingly confident that Peter just would. He wasn't wrong. The door closing echoed throughout the house and Stiles felt more than heard Peter walking behind him on his way to the kitchen.

"I thought you wanted me to be biased?" Peter asked.

Groaning, Stiles hung his head, shaking it slightly. Jeez, give Peter and inch and he'd take the whole damn county if you let him. Wondering at what exactly he'd gotten himself into, Stiles gazed hopefully into the pantry, searching for a quick meal idea since his brain was too mushy to come up with one off the bat.

"Fine, what would you suggest?" Peter asked, resigned.

"Cliff," Stiles said as he riffled through the boxed food, considering a Hamburger Helper dish for a moment before settling on a mac 'n cheese box. Everyone liked mac 'n cheese. And if Peter didn't like it, then he could eat somewhere else. Right now, Stiles wasn't up to cooking anything that didn't take less than ten minutes.

Peter looked equally horrified and fascinated at Stiles's choice of names. "Cliff. _Cliff?_ What's that supposed to be? Some sort of euphemism for your undying love for me?"

"No, it's more of a word to describe a land feature that ends abruptly and had the potential to kill people painfully and messily, but we can go with your reasoning if you want." _Whatever suits your ego_, Stiles thought to himself. Undying love, wow…

Stiles busied himself with heating a pot of water on the stove. Turning back for the box of mac n' cheese, he froze at the contemplative look on Peter's face. "Oh god, you like it don't you?" It had been a joke, just a stupid joke to rile the older man up, but Peter actually looked as if he were considering it.

Shrugging nonchalantly, Peter sauntered over. "It's interesting when you put it that way."

_Of course it was_, Stiles thought. _It describes you perfectly_.

When Stiles upended the noodles into the water, Peter took the opportunity to wrap his arms around the teen's waist. "I'm still keeping my name," he whispered into Stiles's ear, somehow managing to make the innocent statement sound incredibly dirty. Stiles was starting to accept that as one of Peter's quirks.

"Whatever floats your boat, dude," Stiles sighed, gently stirring the pasta with a wooden spoon. A thought occurred to him. "So…was that our first fight?" he asked, his hand pausing over the pot.

Peter rested his chin on Stiles's shoulder, humming to himself. "I suppose. Why? Eager for make-up sex?"

Glancing curiously at Peter from the corner of his eye, Stiles went back to stirring. "Is make-up sex better than regular sex?" Because, if it was, the idea of picking a fight to up the ante in bed suddenly sounded a lot less suicidal. Okay, not by much, but it was still something. Or it might just be that he was eager for sex of any kind. Stiles wasn't picky.

"It can be," Peter murmured in his ear.

Stiles shivered as Peter started pressing butterfly-soft kisses down his neck. It was weird how the barely-there touch felt almost as hot as Peter's pseudo-vampire attack in the Jeep.

Leaving the spoon to sit in the boiling pot, Stiles leaned back into Peter's chest and rested his head on the older man's shoulder, basking in the attention from Peter's wandering hands and lips. Peter had found the holes that Isaac's claws had made in his jeans and was mercilessly rubbing the exposed skin there in tight circles, driving Stiles crazy bit by bit.

Stiles's cock throbbed impatiently but no matter how pointedly he rolled his hips or tugged at Peter's shirt sleeves, Peter steadfastly kept his caresses away from where Stiles wanted them most. Releasing a frustrated whine, Stiles turned his head to meet Peter in a needy kiss, only the older man seemed determined to keep it just as slow and gentle as his touches, resisting Stiles's attempts to deepen it. Giving up, Stiles slouched back against Peter's chest, ignoring the feeling of Peter smiling in victory.

Because it wasn't a victory.

It wasn't.

It just took him a few seconds to realize that he liked this too, kissing soft and sweet and unhurried.

The only thing that would have made it better was if they were horizontal (though Stiles suspected that it was because he wanted to do other horizontal things).

But the phone blowing up in his pocket—_that_ could stop.

Stiles was content simply ignoring it, but Peter didn't seem to agree with him. Breaking the kiss, the older man dug the offending device out of Stiles's pocket for him and oh so nicely handed it over after glancing at the screen. Stiles considered it a new low that he was being cock-blocked by his lover. Maybe it was because he still smelled a bit like Isaac yet?

Though he couldn't see how with Peter rubbing against him like a giant cat.

Werecat?

Sending Peter a sour look, Stiles groaned before answering the call. "Hey Scott," he said with less than usual enthusiasm. "What's up?"

_"Hey, are you doing anything right now?"_ Scott asked.

Stiles eyed Peter petulantly from over his shoulder. "No, why?" _Even though he'd like to be._

As if sensing Stiles's annoyance, Peter smirked to himself as he reached around the teen to stir the boiling pot, clearly listening in on the conversation.

_"I was wondering if you wanted to come over to study for next week's finals. If I bomb any of the tests, I'll get held back. I could really use the help, dude,"_ Scott pleaded.

Torn between wanting to stay with Peter and going to his buddy's aid, Stiles floundered awkwardly for a moment. "Um…I'm…kinda in the middle of cooking dinner right now…might be a while…" Stiles hedged. If another 5 to 10 minutes could be called 'a while'.

He was half aware of Scott's response as a strange trill sounded in the room. Looking over his shoulder in confusion, Stiles saw Peter frowning as he dug his own phone out of his pocket, grimacing as he read the text he'd just received.

Scott's voice became background noise as Stiles focused on the screen Peter held up for him to read.

**Get back to the depot. Need to talk. NOW.**

It was from Derek, and there was little doubt in Stiles's mind of what the topic of discussion would be. _"Seriously?"_ he whispered, upset by just how much the universe was against him and his happy times.

Peter merely shrugged, forcing a look of passive indifference onto his face. He made to tuck his phone away, but Stiles snatched it out of his hand.

If Stiles couldn't have everything go his way, then he was going to dig in his heels until something gave. He was tired of making concessions for everyone. It was _his _damn turn to make demands.

_"Stiles? Hello?"_

"What? Oh, uh," Stiles stalled as he typed out a quick reply to Derek's message.

**This is Stiles. Im keeping Peter for dinner. U can hav him back after we done.**

"Sorry dude, was messing with something. Um, maybe give me an hour or so then I can head over. Sound good?"

_"Yeah, that's great"_ Scott said, sounding relieved. _"Just send me a text when you're heading this way."_

Peter's phone went off in Stiles's hand. "Sure thing," Stiles said, then ended the call. He opened the message, incredibly aware of Peter's chin resting on his shoulder as the man read the screen.

**Fine. Don't give me that much information again.**

Stiles stared at the screen, confused. "Why wouldn't he want to know why you might be late?"

Peter's chuckle vibrated all along Stiles's back. "He thinks we're having," nipped at Stiles earlobe, "_dinner_," he finished huskily.

Stiles had to clear his throat before he could respond, his cock twitching with interest. He was very on board with the idea of _dinner_. "Pervert much?"

Peter snorted at him, probably smelling the arousal coming off his skin. "Yes, well, if the interrupting duo weren't doing their best to ruin the night, dinner _would_ be followed with _dinner_, but…" he trailed off crisply with a trace of irritation, turning off the burner with a precise flick of his wrist. Peter moved away to poke around in the cabinets under the countertop, breathing out a sigh as he went.

Stiles pursed his lips moodily at Peter's back. "We still _could_," he insisted softly, hopeful even with the new time constraints.

"I don't like to be rushed. Especially since it'll be your first time, officially. I want to have all the time in the world when I take you apart," Peter said as he came back to the stove with a strainer. "And I don't know about you, but it kinda kills the mood knowing that I'd have to drag myself out of your bed to go smooth Derek's feathers.

A brief shiver ran down Stiles's spine, already anticipating full-out sex with Peter. "How did you know where that was?" He asked, belatedly realizing that Peter had found the strainer far too easily.

At Stiles's surprised expression, Peter smiled mischievously. "I familiarized myself with the kitchen when you were talking with Scott two nights ago." He took up the pot and made his way to the sink.

"Wow, that was nosy of you," said Stiles as he followed after Peter with the cheese packet, tossing it up onto the counter on his way to the fridge for skim milk and low sodium butter. In hind sight, Stiles supposed he should have expected that Peter would snoop when he left to his own devices.

"What, you expected me to sit quietly at the table, twiddling my thumbs, while you and Scott talked about me? I needed _something_ to entertain myself."

Stiles snorted. "And my phone wasn't enough for you?" He set the remaining ingredients down on the counter, watching as Peter finished draining off the water. He kind of liked how Peter jumped in to help with the dinner preparations. It reminded Stiles of how his dad would help him finish cooking after coming home from work, but those times were few and far between now that his dad worked odd hours to help fill shifts in the understaffed police department.

A smirk twitched at Peter's lips. "Of course not. I needed much more of a distraction to keep from throttling Scott after the incident with the stairs. Between him and Isaac, I'm not sure who I want to dismember more."

"Well, if _that's_ your scale, does that mean Derek gets off with a maiming?" Stiles asked jokingly as he tossed a splash of milk and a spoonful of butter into the pot, smiling until he saw the veiled anger in Peter's eyes. "My nephew's hurt you?" Peter asked. His body language was deceptively calm, but the tension in his jaw and the icy gray of his eyes said better.

_Aw fuck…hello, Scary Peter._

"What?― No!" Stiles said as he scrambled to pacify the (reformed?) murderer. "Not really. I mean, he's never broken skin or anything. Derek just doesn't know his own strength, is all. He's like a puppy. With really big teeth. But anyways, it's nothing to freak out about, I kinda deserved it. I used him as eye candy to extract a favor out of someone. Ironically, to try to find you, so…no need to go all 'avenging angel'. On _anyone_. Are you gonna finish―? Y'know, I'll just take over…"

Stiles cautiously inched the pot away from Peter since it didn't look like he was going to continue mixing the mac 'n cheese.

Peter's eyes were narrowed, his displeasure obvious. "And what exactly _should_ I do since every werewolf around you thinks it's fine to abuse you?"

Stiles paused mid-stir and rolled his eyes at Peter's melodrama. "Okay, first off? Only _half _of them could be counted as abuse. And second, I hope you're including yourself in that list too, buddy." He gave the cooling pasta a few more vigorous stirs before going in search of plates.

"Include myself how? I haven't _once_ forced you into anything you didn't want," Peter said heatedly, his arms crossed defensively across his chest, leaning back against the counter.

Ok, maybe spreading the blame hadn't been the best way to calm Peter down. "I meant the whole smashing my face into a laptop thing, not" he gestured between himself and Peter, "with _this_."

Peter aggressively snatched up the milk and butter off of the counter and strode angrily (because Peter Hale does _not_ stomp) to the fridge to shove them inside it. "That was different."

Seriously?

"Not really, dude." Stiles arranged a couple plates and forks down at the table. "But now that I think about it, the family resemblance between you and Derek is unreal. You're both fond of slamming my face into things." He turned to look at Peter and nearly knocked a fork to the floor when he found the older man at his elbow, balancing the pot of mac 'n cheese in one hand and two glasses of tea in the other. "Would it kill you to make a little noise?" Stiles grumbled.

Fucking werewolves and their silent footsteps. If it wasn't kanimas and hunters trying to kill him, it was werewolves popping up out of nowhere, trying to give him a heart attack. Inwardly though, Stiles was rather impressed that Peter had managed to pour tea from the pitcher in the fridge without him hearing it. It was fucking creepy as all hell, but it was still impressive.

Peter smirked as he set his handfuls on the table. "It wouldn't, but then I'd miss watching you flail around like an octopus out of water," he said, smug at having surprised Stiles. Thankfully, he no longer seemed on the verge of inflicting bodily harm (no more than usual, at least).

Relieved that Peter's mood had swung back to manageable levels, Stiles playfully elbowed the man in the ribs, smiling when he was elbowed in return. _This_ was the Peter that he liked best―that he could _handle_.

And after finally sitting down to eat, it struck Stiles how…nice…this was, getting to spend time with Peter―_actual_ time, when they weren't groping at each other like teenagers (ignoring the fact that Stiles _was_ a teenager). If someone had told him―even a _week_ ago― that he and Peter would be having a domestic moment in his kitchen, he'd have recommended they get their head examined.

But this was nice, Stiles liked this. And it kind of sucked that he had less than an hour to enjoy it.

Peter must have sensed the slump in his mood because the older man stopped eating and stared at him. "What's wrong?" he asked, when Stiles pushed a misshapen noodle around with his fork instead of eating it.

Startled, Stiles finally speared the noodle and ate it, shrugging. "Just looking forward to spending the rest of the night studying for finals," he muttered sarcastically. Especially when he could be doing something productive. Like losing his virginity.

Peter hummed thoughtfully.

"Maybe tonight won't be a total loss."

"Don't really see how," Stiles groused around a mouthful of mac 'n cheese. Scott was his best friend and all, but having someone around who wanted to touch his cock was hard to top. Now that he fully appreciated the appeal, Stiles had to cut his friend some slack for constantly ditching him for Allison (_some_ slack, not all of it).

"How curious are you about 69-ing?" Peter asked, calm and collected as if he were talking about the weather.

Not surprisingly, Stiles's appetite perked right back up.


	9. Chapter 9

"Stiles?" Is something wrong?" Scott asked.

Startled by the question, Stiles froze, the pencil he had been absently tapping against his knee going lax between his fingers. "Wha—nothing's wrong. Why would anything be wrong?"

Scott shrugged from where he sat cross-legged on his bed, hunched over his chemistry textbook. "I dunno. It's just…you haven't really said much since you came over. And you keep looking at me then looking away again. It's kinda creepin' me out, dude. Do you wanna talk? Is it Peter? Did he do something?" His shoulders were tensed up, like he was seriously on the verge of hunting Peter down.

Which was sweet, but—no.

Hauling up his own open chemistry textbook that was threatening to slide off his lap, Stiles wiggled around in Scott's desk chair to a more comfortable position. "No, no problems with Peter. Things are good…uh, _really_ good…" Stiles trailed off, his mind flashing back to earlier: Peter's hot mouth wrapped around his cock, sucking and teasing and making it almost impossible for Stiles to concentrate on pleasuring Peter in return—which apparently Peter had been fine with, judging by his satisfied smile after he'd jacked himself off and shot his load all over Stiles's face (soon after, Stiles had discovered that while having someone come on your face was hot as hell, semen _really_ fucking burned when it got in your eyes).

"Hey, Stiles?"

Forcibly yanking himself out of the memory, Stiles shook his head to clear it and brought his attention back to Scott. "Yeah?"

"Whatever it is that you're thinking about right now, could you not think about it?" Scott asked. His face was pulled into a grimace like the one he'd made at lunch.

Oops.

Stiles rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly, "_Fine_, jeez…at least that's _all_ you can smell right now. You're lucky I love you. I showered for you and everything before coming over." Okay, mostly it had been about making him smell less like a porn star, post-shoot, but Stiles figured washing off the reek of sex doubled as common courtesy.

Scott shook his head and laughed under his breath, but he sobered up a few seconds later. "So if it's not Peter, what is it?" he asked.

The worry in Scott's voice did a lot to sooth whatever ruffled feathers Stiles still had from being left out of the supernatural loop the past few months. It was so easy to get caught up in resentment that he tended to forget that Scott had meant well and genuinely cared about him.

And remembering that, at the end of the day, his buddy still had his back made Stiles's stomach twist with old guilt.

He hadn't had _Scott's _back when he'd left him alone in the woods with an Alpha werewolf (granted, Stiles hadn't known werewolves actually existed then, but the fact still stood). No matter what Peter said about the bite being a gift, a part of Stiles would always be heavy with the knowledge that he had helped rip away his best friend's shot at a normal life. All of Stiles's anger and confusion in the past few months highlighted at least one thing —that he was out of touch with his best (and pretty much only) friend. And that thought rankled at him, especially since they had been nearly inseparable for years.

Stiles cleared his throat, self-conscious of the way his heart rate skipped faster with trepidation. ""Um," Stiles stalled. "Are you okay?"

Scott blinked in confusion. "Am _I_ okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles said, shooting for nonchalance despite the fact that his palms were starting to sweat. "Like, how are you? You know…with your whole…_wolfy_ situation? On a scale of one to ten, one being hate and ten being great, uh…where are you?" he finished weakly, hoping that he didn't come off as too overbearing.

It was just… Stiles needed to hear the words. He might agree with Peter's rationalization on becoming a werewolf, but that didn't mean it held true for Scott.

Scott leaned back against the wall of pillows behind him. Looking lost in thought, he rubbed at rubbed at his shoulder absently, drawing out an exhale. "Uh, I dunno. Decent, I guess? Now that no one's trying to kill us, anyway. Um…I'd put it at a six or a seven, I think, since I'm pretty much back to where I was before school started—except for not being an asthmatic anymore. The heightened senses push it up too, though. If I still had Allison, I'd probably be at, like, an eleven, but…" Scott trailed off, shrugging in a 'what can you do?' kind of way. "Why'd you ask?" He cocked his head curiously to one side.

Ah.

"Just wondering," Stiles said, hastening to shell out a plausible answer. "Things have been kinda crazy for a while and I haven't found the time to get a bead on your quality of life recently, so I just…thought I'd ask."

Scott nodded, still looking a bit lost. "So, why'd you ask about the werewolf thing? Does it bother you?"

Stiles snorted.

The only thing that bothered him about lycanthropy was the tendency to try to tear people (like _him_) into little pieces. Besides, if Stiles had a problem with Scott being a werewolf, there was a good chance he'd have said something by now.

"No, I wanted to know if it bothered _you_." There. Quick and easy, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Scott seemed a little taken aback, oblivious to how much his answer meant to Stiles. "It's got its ups and downs, but it's fine. Couldn't change it if I wanted to, anyways," he said with an uneasy chuckle. "Are you sure you're okay with it? You seem kinda concerned about it," Scott said, a trace of worry in his voice.

"Ah, well, you know…"

"What?" Scott prompted, when Stiles failed to elaborate.

Stiles worried at a fraying edge of his textbook with his thumbnail. _Might as well rip another Band-Aid off_, he thought, despondently.

"I'm sort of the reason you got bit in the first place," he muttered down at his lap, hardly daring to look up at his friend in more than glances.

Scott frowned. "Dude, you're not the one who bit me. I don't blame you for what happened that night—_neither_ of us knew that was gonna happen. I mean, if you're gonna blame anyone, blame _Peter_."

_You know, the guy you're boning_—Scott didn't need to say it, but Stiles could hear the subtext as if his friend had shouted it, like Stiles was violating bro code by willingly letting the older man anywhere near him. He wondered if he was cringing on the outside as much as he was internally.

Some of his guilt must have shown on his face because Scott slumped forward over his lap again, bracing his elbows on his thighs with a defeated sigh.

"Look," Scott said, pacifyingly. "It's fine, dude. Really. Over and done with. If we all keep throwing around things we can't change then we're not gonna move past it, so…consider us good. _All_ of us, including Peter. But I'm still not forgiving him for killing all those people," he said determinedly, as though Stiles was going to try to convince him to absolve Peter of all his sins.

Which Stiles wasn't. Murder was still murder, regardless of the reasoning behind it. Even if they were _very_ good reasons.

Stiles raised his hands, placating his friend. "Not asking you to." He went back to scouring his textbook for a definition that he'd copied down wrong (how the hell he'd mixed up metalloid and alkaloid, he didn't know), his anxiety assuaged.

Mostly.

"Thanks for showering for me, though."

Stiles popped his head up and returned the grin Scott was giving him. "No problem, buddy. I figured I'd be nice and come over smelling like me instead of werewolves." He stretched over sideways to rest his elbow on the desk, his body twisted awkwardly as he lazily drew a line through the alkaloid's definition he'd written under 'metalloid', proceeding to scribble the correct definition underneath it, his head moving back and forth from his textbook to his study guide.

"Were_wolves?_ As in more than one?" Scott asked, interrupting Stiles's train of thought.

"Huh?" Stiles said, still half concentrating on finishing his sentence.

"You said were_wolves_. Like, more than just Peter. Who else would you smell like?"

"Ah." Stiles froze again. He hadn't realized that he'd pluralized 'werewolf', but now that it was brought to his attention, Stiles couldn't get himself to stop thinking about how Isaac, how he had ground against Stiles and tore at his clothes, trying to get _closer_…

The memory jarred through him and Stiles found himself unable to laugh off his slip up as a mistake. His tongue felt heavy as lead in this mouth and, try as he might, he couldn't focus on the words he needed to write down, his hand suspended mid-pencil stroke.

"Stiles?" Scott prompted, his face drawn with concern.

Feeling slightly ashamed, Stiles ducked his head and sat back properly in the chair, abandoning his sentence for the moment. This was stupid. _Nothing_ had happened. No one was hurting him. So why did he feel so _hunted_ right now, like he was on the edge of flight?

His thoughts were becoming more and more chaotic as Stiles grasped at them. He'd taken his Adderall, right? Before coming over to Scott's? He'd popped his normal dosage to go to a normal study session so why the hell couldn't he concentrate —?"

"Stiles?" Scott asked again, stronger, more insistent.

Isaac, it had to be Isaac. The attack was messing with Stiles's head, the memory fighting for his attention now that he couldn't push it away and it wanted out, wanted a voice—

He needed to tell Scott.

"Um…about the cafeteria incident," Stiles haltingly began, the words reluctant to fall from his lips even though his mind was flashing through the images like someone had their finger pressed on a fast-forward button. "Part of it may have extended beyond the cafeteria."

At Scott's imploring stare, he launched into a haphazard account of the events in the Preserve, absently wondering just how many Band-Aids he could rip off before he actually lost some skin.

***Elsewhere***

The sound of Peter's footsteps echoed through the open stillness of the train depot as he steadily descended the concrete steps. The large hanging lights illuminated the main room, flooding it with light and leaving nowhere for anyone to hide but in the railcars.

Narrowing his attention to them, Peter picked up the steady heartbeat of his nephew in the farthest car.

To all appearances Isaac was nowhere to be found. And that was fine, in Peter's opinion, because the irritation that simmered just beneath his air of calmness _itched_ for an outlet —like the wet behind the ears werewolf who had dared to touch what was _his_. Perhaps after he heard what Derek had to say, Peter would track down Isaac for a chat…

He rolled his shoulders, working out the tension in them, and made a beeline for the car his nephew was in.

There was no fear in Peter. He had seen Derek's bite, knew the ultimate and fatal damage that his nephew's wrath could cause, but he also knew that if Derek had wanted to take it that far again, he'd have done it by now. After all, why would Derek waste the time and effort to help Peter re-establish himself if he wanted to kill him (again)?

So, really, it was his nephew's bark he had to contend with.

It wasn't often that Derek demanded his presence and, when he did, it was usually over something Peter had done to piss the Alpha off— though Peter supposed that dominating Derek's only remaining beta would have struck a pretty good chord.

He shoved aside the rusting door and hopped up into the car.

Derek was sitting rigidly in a seat halfway down the car, staring at him with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He wasn't surprised by Peter's appearance (then again, he had probably known the moment Peter set foot in the depot).

Deciding it was probably best to avoid looking like a threat, Peter dropped into a seat a few rows away from Derek, sprawling in it. "You called?" he asked sardonically, patiently waiting for Derek to vent his frustration.

It was a few seconds before Derek spoke, taking the time to first catalog the scents Peter had brought in with him.

_Smart_, Peter thought.

Scents couldn't tell lies —but they could be misinterpreted.

"How is he?" Derek asked softly.

The question threw Peter, somewhat. He'd been expecting the violence and yelling right off the bat. He eyed his nephew, assessing him. Something akin to pride stirred inside Peter at the display of maturity.

"Physically, he's undamaged, though his jeans weren't so lucky," Peter said, keeping a neutral tone. "Mentally… it's harder to tell. He has a knack for repressing his feelings with sarcasm and he's deflected discussing what happened since I escorted him home. There could be problems in his future interactions with Isaac, especially if he keeps avoiding the issue rather than meeting it head on, but…" he trailed off with a shrug. "At least Isaac didn't get farther than aggressively humping Stiles against a tree."

"Yeah," Derek said, his eyes narrowed. "You stopped Isaac before anything else could happen. In fact," a hard note entered Derek's tone, "considering the little damage Isaac _actually_ inflicted, you were apparently very…_enthusiastic_…about separating him from Stiles. A broken nose, a dislocated shoulder, a few broken ribs, not to mention the _clawing_ of various parts of his body —"

"If you're saying I went _overboard_," Peter said crisply, cutting off Derek's inventory of Isaac's injuries (as if they even mattered when Isaac had likely healed before reaching the depot), "I _disagree_. If I had found them just five minutes later than I did, Stiles would have been _raped_, had his virginity ripped away without his consen—"

"Virginity?" Derek interrupted, looking confused.

"Yes," Peter grudgingly admitted. "_Technically_, he's still a virgin, which makes what Isaac did even worse, trying to take that away from Stiles by force. Consider what _that_ would have done to _Stiles_," he finished coldly, his rage broadcasted in his squared shoulders and crossed arms.

Isaac wouldn't have been gentle, wouldn't have stretched or slicked Stiles before entering him. In his mind, Peter could vividly imagine Stiles's screams and tears as Isaac thrust in single-mindedly, brutally ripping Stiles apart. If Peter hadn't found them when he did, Stiles would be in the hospital right now—or the morgue.

"You care about him," Derek murmured in amazement.

Peter's eyes snapped open, unaware that he had closed them against the pure fury that had surged through him at the thought of what could have happened tonight. Derek's eyes were raking over him, as if he was something new, and Peter mentally chastised himself for giving too much away. He wasn't quite sure what the extent of his affections for Stiles was yet, but he'd wanted to keep his feelings private for a while longer.

Shaking off the haze in his mind, Peter became aware of a stinging pain in his upper arm. He looked down and was surprised to see his claws, piercing his shirt and digging into his flesh. Retracting them, Peter sighed, wondering if he could still salvage the situation.

"Of course I care whether or not he gets raped. Do you understand the _damage_ rape does? Physically _and_ emotionally? It's abhorrent—a tool for cowards and the lowest of the low. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, much less Stiles," he said, his nose slightly scrunched up in distaste.

Well, maybe on a hunter.

"That's not what I meant," Derek said. His eyes were narrowed, analyzing Peter closely, looking for inconsistencies. "If Isaac had attacked anyone else, you wouldn't be this angry right now. But it matters to you whether Stiles gets hurt. You care about him," he said, the statement sounding more like an accusation.

Peter cocked his head. "Is this an interrogation or an intervention?" he asked curiously, careful to mask how wary the change in topic made him. He'd been hoping that, after the 'Q and A' session at the house, all of Derek's prying into his personal business had ceased, but it seemed his nephew was more tenacious than Peter gave him credit for.

Whether or not that tenacity was going to be a problem remained to be seen.

"It's a reality check," Derek said, his tone stern. "Stiles is human. Tonight, he couldn't fight off a _beta_. How do you expect him to defend himself against an _Alpha?_ When the Alpha Pack comes at us, what do you think is gonna happen to him when he gets caught in the middle?"

"So what do you want me to do? Push him away because he _might_ get hurt?" Peter shot back, his proverbial hackles raised at the thought of casting the teen aside. He refused to accept that as an option, not after the promise he'd made to Stiles.

"He's in danger by being close to you, and the longer he stays near us, the more likely it is that the Alpha Pack will use him against you. You can't protect him all the time."

"That's _why_ I want you to reconsider your decision to keep Scott out of the loop," Peter said, slowly enunciating each word as though his nephew would actually _listen_ if he could hear Peter's frustration in every syllable. But Derek just shook his head and Peter's irritation with the Alpha mounted.

This martyring streak needed to end.

"We've been over this before," Derek said wearily. "The Alpha Pack left their mark on _our_ door, not Scott's. There's no reason to bring him into a fight that isn't his. Let him— let them _both_ be teenagers while they can. They don't need this."

The sour stench of grief permeated the air, threatening to choke Peter. He understood —understood, not empathized —that the fire had forced Derek to grow up faster than he otherwise would have, but a short childhood wasn't uncommon in their kind.

Being a werewolf wasn't easy.

Peter sighed heavily, feeling exhaustion beginning to set in. "_No one_ needs this, but, believe me, you don't want Scott caught unawares by the Alpha Pack —"

"I don't want him in this at _all_," Derek interrupted forcefully. "It's _not. His. Problem!"_

"Then at least tell Stiles. Kill two birds with one stone," Derek snorted derisively at him, "no, hear me out," Peter said quickly. "You don't want Scott involved, fine, but at the same time you don't want him to walk blindly into this mess either, right? Bringing Stiles into the loop is the only way to make sure that Scott stays out of the way without requiring you to watch his every move. Stiles knowing the situation gives you an extra pair of eyes and a way to lever Scott in whatever direction you need. At least one of them needs to be on their guard."

Derek looked away, but didn't say anything, which meant that he knew Peter had a point but didn't want to admit it.

"Derek. You _need_ Stiles in on this," Peter implored softly.

_Peter_ needed Stiles aware of the situation. He was in the same boat as Derek: he couldn't be there all the time to protect Stiles. Tonight's drama had driven that home. But Peter still had confidence in Stiles. After all, it was far easier to spot danger coming from outside than it was to expect it from within. Stiles just needed to know what to look for.

When Derek nodded his grudging acceptance with a terse "fine", relief swept through Peter, calming him, though he knew his peace of mind came at a cost. There would be no peace for Stiles until the Alpha Pack was dealt with and no longer a looming threat. And hoping for a swift resolution was probably a double-edged sword.

"Thank you," Peter said, infusing the words with all the gratitude he was capable of anymore.

Derek nodded again, this time wearily, knowing as Peter did that the decision condemned a teenager to a heightened state of paranoia for the foreseeable future. But Stiles could have night terrors for all Peter cared, so long as the teen stayed _alive_.

Derek didn't offer any further comments and Peter jumped at the chance to take his leave, having effectively thrown his nephew into a "fit of the broods", as Peter liked to call it.

Free of the stifling atmosphere of the railcar, Peter went in search of a solitary place to crash for the night, content to put off worrying his new lover for at least a few hours more.


End file.
